Broken Innocence.

T’was the morning after the night before,
I awoke from my sleep, and people I found,
Some on the bed, the settee and the floor,
Most of them sleeping, not making a sound.

I awoke from my sleep, and people I found,
Where was I now and what had I done?
Most of them sleeping, not making a sound,
I’ll tell you this party really was fun.

Where was I now? And what had I done?
I’d broke every rule that I’d ever made,
I’ll tell you this party really was fun,
And my rule book is quickly beginning to fade.

I’d broke every rule that I’d ever made,
As the joints that I’d had, put me all on a high,
And my rule book is quickly beginning to fade,
I wish it was sooner I’d taken this try.

As the joints that I’d had, put me all on a high,
I felt for the first time I was really alive,
I wish it was sooner I’d taken this try,
Didn’t know how much that I’d been deprived.

I felt for the first time, I was really alive,
Venturing out of my protective shell,
Didn’t know how much that I’d been deprived.
Some rules are for breaking, so what the ’ell.

Venturing out of my protective shell,
Meant rules were broken and innocence shattered,
Some rules are for breaking, so what the ’ell,
To build my confidence was all that mattered.

By Liz O'Leary.

The grandfather clock is broken!

The big old grandfather clock was broken. It had finally stopped working. The colonel couldn't bring himself to have it repaired, so there it stands to this day. Telling the time of 5:17

The big old grandfather clock had stood in the great hall of the big old house, ticking its life away. The tick tocking echoed, filling the empty space around it. It now said 5:17. That didn't mean anything to anyone else, but it did to the colonel. Only he knew it was specifically 5:17AM. The old Colonel had checked his pocket watch by it every day, until the day before; Thursday, 6th of July.

He had been retired from the army for 20 years now. He was 75, his hair had turned grey and his eyes were steely blue and hadn't lost their hardness.

Colonel Brown loved his wife, Flora, and their children, Robert & Rachel, Both had grown up and left the family home. Rachel had two children, Robert was still single and working as a lawyer.

“Why not have the clock fixed Dad,?” asked Rachel. “It might help you.”

“Nobody touches the clock,” he replied.

So there it stood, reading the time of 5:17 to all who passed. To the colonel, it was 5:17AM.

Flora loved to garden. She was a petite woman, with long white hair, plaited and pinned up the back of her head. Her eyes were of the most warmest blue. Just like the sky on a sunny day. She also ran the flower arranging group at the local church and did wedding bouquets for the brides and all the flower arranging for the local events such as fetes.

“Would you like carrots, potatoes and an onion to go with the beef?” asked Flora, “We've finished the flowers for tomorrows fete,”

 “I have some of the locals to help put them up in the morning. And I'm sure they'll look splendid, dear.”

This was a typical day. Flora would bring in some vegetables, or salad and then prepare the meal with them, and they would chat about that day or of forthcoming events.

They were all standing round the burial site as the Vicar recited the words,

 “Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust.”

Colonel Brown had a brave face on, his daughter Rachel had tears rolling down her cheeks that she kept gently dabbing away. Her husband, Michael, had one arm round her shoulder and both of them had an arm round each of the two children in front.

What would he do without her?

“You must both come to the wake too,” said Rachel to Tom and Marie. “I'll organise a buffet.”

Rachel knew how much Tom and Marie meant to her parents after working for them so long.

 When they got back to the house, there was much light talk of remembering Flora.

“Hey Dad, it'll get easier, we all miss her.” said Rachel.

 The colonel, smiled a sad smile and nodded.

 “She was everything to me.”

 The Colonel remembered the day Flora had come home from the Doctors.

 “I need some tests” she had said.

 “Dr, Jacobs says I have the symptoms of Cancer, but I need to have these tests to be sure”

 “Oh, Flora!” exclaimed the colonel.

 He was speechless. He'd never thought of her becoming ill. The test had come back positive.

Robert broke into his thoughts.

“Remember when she made that rocket Birthday cake, Dad?” asked Robert. “She'd made a swiss roll cake and made the wings out of pieces of cake. Think that was my 8th Birthday”

 “Yes, I remember seeing the photograph's. I was away at the time,” smiled his Dad. “You wanted to be a rocket scientist and work for NASA. back then.”

 “She always enjoyed being in the kitchen and the garden. She hated it when Marie and Tom had to do everything for her.”

“Let's have a red cabbage tonight, Tom, please, a couple of leeks and potatoes.”

 Ill she might have been, but she still liked to choose their meal. After Marie had cooked, they would take Colonel Brown and Flora's dinner through to the dinning room where they'd eat the dinner with a bottle of wine to suit. Marie and Tom would eat in the kitchen.

Flora had become very thin and frail though her illness and needed help getting around. This was when Marie, who did the general housework, took over the cooking and they hired Tom to do the gardening. On a fine day, she would be taken out to sit in the garden. She now even slept downstairs. The colonel had moved downstairs with her. He hated to leave her alone and it felt so lonely in the big four poster bed upstairs.

Tonight, Thursday 6th July, was roast pork with crackling with the vegetables and apple sauce. The colonel loved his pork, as did Flora. It was one of their favourites.

Each night, Flora heard the old grandfather clock ticking loudly through the door, ticking it's life away. Echoing through the hall. Tick, tock, tick, tock!!

It wouldn't tick forever. It couldn't. It was the early morning of Friday, 7th of July. And on the early morning of this night, the house seemed eerily quiet. The Colonel got out of bed and went to look. The grandfather clock had stopped. It was broken.

He got back into bed thinking he must tell Flora and get it repaired.

When he woke up later that morning, he noticed his wife had died. It was like the grandfather clock was ticking to Flora's heartbeat. 5:17AM, she died.

By Liz O'Leary.

Fish and Chips

I wait for my Chinese takeaway and I feel somewhat exposed, alone in the large glass shop window. Much like the fish on display in the corner. They are so still. The water is murky and rather foul-looking this time. When was the last time that the tank was cleaned? How long had it been since I had been here?

The fish are sullen and morose. Even for fish. Koi carp: one black, one white with flashes of brilliant orange; one silver ghost carp. That’s the one that I can’t quite take my eyes away from. I think of all the times that I wished I could have become invisible as a child. It is still the superhero power that I would most relish.

Suddenly, from the kitchen in the back, comes a loud voice. It sounds like a long and angry tirade of abuse. I can’t make out the words. They are spoken in Chinese; a language that I do not know. But I can sense the palpable rage and I sit up a little straighter in the red padded chair; feeling much like a voyeur as the pans bang and crash. The young girl, who took my order, rushes back through. Our eyes meet. Hers are red and tears stream down her face. She turns away quickly, flustered, upset and embarrassed. I keep looking at her, as do the fish, I’m sure of it. Are their funny little mouths trying to tell her that everything will be okay?

I wish that she would turn to look at me again as I long to send her a friendly smile. I feel sorry for her as she struggles to compose herself. But somehow the moment is lost and now she is handing over the white plastic bag of food over the counter. I can smell the spicy noodles and I am aware of my intense hunger. I thank her and leave and begin my walk home.

Home isn’t far away, though it feels like miles as my stomach roars and I imagine the moment when I will sprinkle vinegar upon the chips. My mouth is wet as I salivate. The sheer notion of the vinegar is enough to quicken my steps. But then I slow down again and I feel sick. I could vomit right here in the street. I don’t want the Chinese food. I don’t want any food. And I would happily throw it all into the nearest bin, but it’s all I have. It’s all I have to walk back into the house with.

Is it today? Did it happen today? Amongst the bank statements, the electricity bill and the fourth reminder that my eye test is overdue? Was it there? It’s a nauseating way to live life: waiting. Waiting for the glass to shatter. Watching my wife, Sarah, brush her long auburn hair, her pastel pink lips smiling at her reflection. Watching our daughter, Clara, line up her ever-growing collection of curly-haired dolls, in size order. Chatting to them as though they are familiar friends. They could do this because they don’t know. They don’t know that I’m a bastard. That I have betrayed them and our happy life without giving them a second thought.

Or do they? Is it today? Has an ominous-looking brown envelope arrived? Had Sarah opened it as the kettle boiled? Had she seen it? Has she seen the photographs? The proof? The evidence of what I have done?

I break out in a sweat, a guilty layer of moisture soaks my forehead and I collapse to the ground. Chips roll across the pavement and I watch as a couple of them land on the edge of the road. I know myself to be a coward. I wish that I was the ghost carp. I can’t do it. I force myself to my feet and I creep up our front path, leaving the bag of hot Chinese food on the doorstep. And I walk away.

By Laura Huntley.

Prompt words: ghost, vinegar, photograph.

Blue

She’s feeling blue. There are so many words, with the same meaning, that she could choose. Depressed, low, gloomy, down, sad, disheartened. But blue is right. Not a summer day sky blue. A murky, polluted water blue. A blue teetering on grey. A cold blue. Frozen. And she shivers with her misery. She pulls the blanket of numbness over her knees to soothe her aching, weary bones. A covering of detachment and remoteness. How different from last week.

Last week was anxiety. Heart palpitations and sweaty palms. It was insomnia and a tight band around her chest. The nerves grew quickly and it had felt as though someone was blowing up a balloon inside of her. Taut, expanding fear. Growing, growing, pop.

The pop had been like shaking a bottle of fizzy drink and then unscrewing the lid. The madness came then, as it always did. Effervescent bubbles of shrieks and mighty sobs. Of angry recriminations and suicidal flirtations. Of feeling as though the whole world was laughing at her, sneering behind her back. And the paranoia marched on as words whispered inside her mind and told her to cut herself with scissors.

But the regret inevitably arrived and there was a hysterical phone call to the emergency services. Flashing lights and losing consciousness. Nurses with pursed lips and sorry bandages. Talk of getting her the best help. Doctors questioning her right mind; but ultimately letting her go home alone anyway.

Home. Walls. Private suffocation. Denial and disinterest cosied up to her on the sofa and she relished the company for a little while. And it all washed over her head. She didn’t feel it as a pain now. It floated. It exhausted. Though she knew full well that she would soon have an appointment to meet with anxiety and turmoil again. Because that’s how it worked. That’s what happened when she was feeling blue.

By Laura Huntley.

Prompt words supplied: Blue, Relish & Balloon.

The Imperfect Couple

“Oh my God, oh my God” she screamed.

I ran from the kitchen into the hall thinking she must have had an accident or something. Instead I found her with an open envelope in one hand and what looked like an invitation card in the other.

“What on earth’s going on”, I asked.

“We’ve only reached the final” she shrieked.

I was used to Lauren talking in riddles but did get frustrated at times when she assumed I knew what she was on about.

“Got to the final of what”?

“Ah, I hadn’t mentioned it because I thought nothing would come of it.  I entered us in “the perfect couple competition” several months ago.  I’ve been filling in forms, sending photos and even footage from our holiday last year”.

“And this”, she said waving the card around, “is our invitation to Brayford Manor for the finals.  It’s an overnight stay, all expenses paid for us and three other couples.

“Unbelievable”, I thought, most of the time I need a crystal ball to unravel what she is talking about and now she’s entered us in this competition without telling me anything about it.  If the judges are looking for compatibility, they were going to be sadly disappointed.

“When is it”, I asked.

“Friday week, so we have plenty of time to brush up on what answers we should give.  I assume they’ll be asking us things like, what our favourite foods are, favourite holiday destinations, you know the sort of thing”.

“Well that should be a real walk in the park, its in the bag if that’s all they want to know”.

She totally missed the sarcasm in my voice.

Last week her favourite food was Italian, the week before it was Indian.  Then there were the diet fads, first it was the low carb diet followed by the Atkins diet, at the moment the 5:2 diet is favourite.  What chance do I have of answering anything correctly.

There was an upside though, a free night of luxury at Brayford Manor sounds good.  This is a place which is well out of our price range so it will be nice, to, instead of seeing how the other half live, to be the “other half” if only for one night.

The day finally arrived, Lauren had been on a high ever since the invitation arrived and I must admit to feeling excited about the trip.

We arrived at the Manor about 6.00pm and were escorted to our room.  After the long drive, the first thing we did was to take advantage of the luxury en suite bathroom where it seemed every type of toiletry was available.  Lauren turned into an eight year old.

“Look at this, look at these” she was picking up soap, shower cream, talc , eau de toilette, these were in sets of lavender, rose and magnolia, each of course being her favourite.  She decided on the Lavender fragrance.

I chose Aramis.

When we were ready, we were lead into a small reception hall where champagne had been laid on and we were introduced to the other three couples, all of us feeling very nervous.

Not sure about the others, but the champagne certainly gave me courage and my nerves seemed to disappear.

The judges were to speak to each couple as a couple and then individually after which we were to be served dinner.

The judges would give their decision about 10.00pm.

There were four prizes up for grabs, the first being a whopping £10,000, the second £5,000 and the third £2,500.  As a consolation prize the fourth couple would receive a weekend break at Brayford Manor.

We were the third couple to go in front of the judges. 

The first question, “if you won first prize what would you spend the money on”?

“A new car”.

“Put it towards the wedding”.

We both answered simultaneously.  You can probably guess which one of us gave which answer.

I looked at Lauren, “what wedding”, I whispered, I just couldn’t help myself.  I thought as the perfect couple, we didn’t need a wedding.

It all went downhill after that, each of the answers we gave couldn’t have been more diverse.

I was asked to leave the room whilst Lauren remained, I couldn’t bear to think of what replies she would come up with and just hoped the judges would be able to understand her.

My turn came and all I could do was answer truthfully, being absolutely certain that our interview as a couple had scuppered any chance of us winning or even coming third.  Any way the fourth prize of a weekend at Brayford Manor wasn’t to be sneezed at, that would do me.

The dinner provided was nothing short of a banquet, both Lauren and I tucked in, the other three couples pushed each course around on their plates, hardly eating anything.

After the meal there was about thirty minutes to spare before we all faced the judges again.

Although it was a bit chilly, Lauren and I decided to have a wander outside and found ourselves in a beautiful courtyard, although it was 2013, it could have been three hundred years earlier. The setting was perfect, the Manor had been built in the 18^th century and it was clear that the courtyard today remained exactly as it was all those years ago. The whole area was illuminated by a bright white moon shining from a clear night sky.

All too soon, we were called back by the judges.  In good competition tradition, the prizes were awarded in reverse order.

We waited expectantly to hear our names but they weren’t our names called our, nor were the next.

Finally, “it gives me great pleasure to present the first prize of £10,000 to Lauren and Paul” the senior judge said.

We stood rooted to the spot, the scream came suddenly at the same time as Lauren launched herself into my arms, how I managed to remain standing upright I’ve no idea.

The judge continued, “each couple presented great merit in their relationships but to be a Perfect Couple there has to be complete honesty and this sometimes means when honesty by one is not always popular with the other.  Lauren and Paul gave honest answers even when a number of these were at total odds to each other.  The body language exhibited by each of them clearly showed their love”.

“The Perfect Couple doesn’t mean they always have to agree with each other but living in harmony whilst not having the same views gains special merit and makes for a strong relationship”.

The remainder of the evening past in a dream but I was wide awake when I asked Lauren to marry me.  Her reply, “oh, I thought we might buy a new car”!

By Christine Williamson.

Prompt words: Champagne  Courtyard  Envelope  Moon  Soap

They Would Never Meet Again

She was so nervous, clinging on to Rob’s arm as they walked into the consultant’s room.  Mr Lee was sat waiting for them.  Jenny thought she would be able to tell from the look on his face whether the news was good or bad but in fact his face was an unreadable mask.

“Please sit down”, he said pleasantly giving nothing away in the tone of his voice, “as you know we’ve carried out tests to see if the bone marrow transplant has been successful, we were concerned that the donor wasn’t an exact match but it was near enough for us to go ahead taking into consideration how weak Emma was becoming.  We did explain that this drastically reduced the success rate....”

Jenny couldn’t stand any more, interrupting with “just tell us, has it worked?”

Mr Lee’s gaze dropped to his desk, he looked up again and there was no mistaking the sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, tests carried out show that the cancerous cells are increasing rapidly which indicates that the transplant has not been successful”.

“So what happens now”? it was the first time Rob had spoken.

Mr Lee looked uncomfortable, “it might be best if you take her home, let her enjoy her own surroundings, when the time comes, we can arrange for a children’s hospice where you can stay too and where you know help and support will be on hand 24 hours.

“You mean that’s it”, choked Jenny, “we’ve just got to watch her die without doing anything else?”

“If there was anything, please be assured we would be doing it.  Emma’s Leukemia hasn’t responded to any of the usual treatments, the transplant was the last resort”.

“You can go on to the ward, you’ll see that although she is very weak, she is her usual cheerful self.  There will be occasions when she feels better and you must make the most of these”.

“But what are we to tell her?”

“Ah, that is something only you can decide.  I can give you some guidance leaflets specially written for parents in your circumstances.  Please don’t think you need to quote from the texts written, but the information might help with the words you need”.

It was two zombie-like parents who walked on to Emma’s ward, rictus grins fixed on their faces.

“Mum, dad”, she exclaimed, “are we going home now?”

“Come on sweetheart, lets get your things together”, said Rob.

A wheelchair transported Emma to the car, she had tried walking but her legs were very weak and she faltered after a few steps.

Back home she was made comfortable on the settee watching her favourite DVDs.

Whilst Rob took Emma’s things upstairs, Jenny went into the kitchen to make a drink.

“It’ll be alright”, Jenny looked around, “I’ll watch over her”, it was a mere whisper, the words spoken were clear but there was nobody there.

“I’m going mad”, thought Jenny, not really surprised considering the stress she was under.

She carried the tea tray into the lounge with orange for Emma who was beaming all over her face.

“Why the big grin?” asked Rob who had just walked into the room, doing his best to sound as normal as possible.

“Nanna Grace was here”.

Rob and Jenny stared at each other and then at Emma.

“Oh darling”, said Jenny, “you know nanna Grace went to heaven and whilst we believe she’s happy there, you know we can’t see her anymore”.

“Yes mum, she is happy and she says I’ll be happy too, she says I won’t have to take any more of those horrible tablets that make me feel sick and no more hospital visits, isn’t that great?”

Jenny dashed out of the room choking back a sob.  Her mother had passed away just over a year ago after a very short illness.  Her sudden death had been a terrible shock and came at a time when Emma had first started to show signs of her illness so Jenny felt she hadn’t grieved for her mother as she should have done.

She shivered suddenly as a cool breath of air touched her cheek, again came the whisper, “she won’t be alone, I can’t take away the pain of your loss but I can be with my grand daughter when she leaves you”.

Jenny looked towards the kitchen window where there was a very faint shimmering light, the light seemed to become more solid before finally fading.

Jenny took a deep breath and went back into the lounge, Emma had dropped off to sleep. Jenny cosied up to her, held her hand and stroked her head where tufts of hair were still showing, the rest of the flaxen curls having fallen out.

The next few week seemed to pass in a blur, Emma’s good days were becoming fewer and fewer and she was getting weaker and weaker.

Jenny persuaded Rob that they could cope at home, she didn’t want Emma to go into the children’s hospice.  Rob thought it might help if they did but Rob didn’t know of the help and support Jenny was getting from his late mother-in-law.

It was early one Saturday evening when Emma quietly and peacefully closed her eyes for the last time.

“What was she saying when she closed her eyes” asked Rob, “I’m sure she said something”.

Jenny held Rob’s hand tight and swallowing back her tears, “I’m coming nanna Grace is what she said”.

Hundreds of people, relatives, school friends, neighbours and even people who only knew the family slightly attended the funeral a week later.

Rob held Jenny close to him as they stood by the small grave.  Jenny’s eyes drifted to the foot of the grave, there was the shadowy figure which had been by her side for the last few weeks.  Through her tears Jenny managed the briefest of smiles in acknowledgement and in that moment she knew that they would never meet again.

By Christine Williamson.

Final sentence prompt: They would never meet again.

A Soldier's Crisis

He’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling seeing nothing, well nothing of the room he is in.

The door opens, “come on Glen, time for your session with Doc Patterson”.

Glen turns over as if he hasn’t heard.

The orderly walks over, sinks down on his hunkers at the side of the bed, “come on lad, you’ve been doing really well, you know doc said you’d have good days and bad days, trust me with the help of these sessions you’ll start to have more good days than bad days, I should know, I’ve been there”.

Glen looked at him, eyes blank, he was back there, guns firing, shells dropping, he curled into a tight ball, if he kept very still they might just miss him.

The scream came suddenly, “Mike, Mike”, but Mike couldn’t answer, bubbles of blood spewing like a fountain came from a wide gash in his chest where the piece of metal shrapnel had torn it open. At this point Glen began thrashing about on the bed, banging his head against the headboard.

The orderly, pressed the security buzzer  which brought help within seconds.  An injection was administered and Glen immediately became calm, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

The following day Glen had his therapy session with Doc Patterson.  These usually followed the same pattern.

He started to describe how he and Mike were on patrol at the road block, a safety measure, in theory to stop radicals entering the village and thus keeping the villagers safe.  The field ‘phone rang, “I’ll get it”, Glen had said.  He hadn’t even reached the ‘phone when the shell hit.  He was knocked to the ground by the force of the explosion and suffered a broken leg, some cracked ribs, cuts and bruises.  He hadn’t realised this at the time, his eyes focused on where Mike lay on his back.  Glen dragged himself the short distance and sees his comrade in arms who over the months had become a close friend.

It was at this point Glen’s narrative ended, he was rocking backwards and forwards in the chair, both arms cradling his head.

“It’s ok, it’s ok”, said Doc Patterson, he was used to this happening at the point where Glen reached his dying friend.

He knew the young man continually relived the moment in his head but struggled to speak of the devastation which had met his eyes.  Added to this, he also knew Glen had massive guilt issues.  If Mike had gone to answer the ‘phone, he would still be alive.  Whether these thoughts extend to the fact that it would have been him laying with his chest ripped open, Doc Patterson had not yet been able to ascertain.

Glen had been in the unit for six weeks, he had initially been sectioned following a spree of destruction.  This had started in his own home and spread to his garden and that of his neighbour where he had destroyed anything and everything in sight.  He’d finished up barricading himself in the neighbours garden shed shouting for everyone to get down and take cover.

His girlfriend had pleaded with him to come out, that it would be ok.

“Liar, liar,” he’d shouted, “its a trap”, for he hadn’t heard his girlfriend’s voice but the voice of the enemy telling him to give himself up.

His state of mind when first admitted to the unit changed from uncontrollable violence, believing all the staff were conspirators spying for the enemy, to complete lethargy when he refused to move from his bed.

Over the weeks with the aid of medication which they were now trying to reduce and sessions with Doc Patterson who tried to get him to open up and speak of the carnage he had witnessed whilst at the same time discussing the guilt he felt.

Strange as it may sound, Glen calmed down when music was played, he had a CD player in his room and would listen to classical music, something he would never have dreamed of listening to in the past.

Doc Patterson discovered from his family that he had a talent for art so artists materials were provided.

At first the paintings produced were a crude attempt at showing the devastation caused by explosions with red paint being splattered haphazardly over the whole canvas.  Gradually the paintings were becoming less angry, the subject matter was still the same but there was a calmer feel to the paintings even though his latest attempt was showing a body lying close to a road block against a back drop of Afghanistan’s rugged mountains.

Doc Patterson was optimistic that he was getting close to Glen speaking about what this painting depicted.

Glen had come to accept that he was suffering from PTSD and whilst he couldn’t blot  out what had happened, he realised the visions he kept seeing were visions and he at least was safe.  There were times though when he felt he had no right to feel safe.

When these dark thoughts entered his head, he put on a CD which had the power to calm his troubled thoughts.

Both men knew it would be a long haul but with Doc Patterson and his teams help Glen was determined to conquer his demons and this determination had been boosted by the fact that two of his paintings were to be exhibited, only locally, but to Glen it could have been the Tate.

The paintings were of scenes in Afghanistan , not the war torn parts that are normally seen but the stark strange rugged beauty of its unforgiving landscape.

By Christine Williamson.

Prompt Words: Bubbles  Buzzer  Liar  Phone  Spree