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.