Wings of an Angel

There was once a little boy walking along a forest path. This boy, no more than six years old, happened upon a rather wondrous treasure on that forest path. He found a pair of wings; such delicate feathers of pale blue were these wings that the young boy could not leave them on the unforgiving forest floor, so he took them gently under his childishly innocent protection. He walked on thinking that perhaps someone had dropped them and that he might be able to return them. They were such wonderful little wings that he thought whoever had lost them would be missing them terribly, and it made him sad.

In time the boy saw another person on the same path as he. There was an old man sitting on the dirt of the ground, and the old man was crying quietly to himself. Filled with nothing but genuine concern the boy hurried forward to the old man talking as he approached. ‘Please, sir, don’t cry. Here,’ the boy held out his precious find. ‘I’ve found your wings.’

The old man looked up at the little boy and his teary expression faded, replaced with a soft smile. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ said the old man. ‘But they aren’t mine. I didn’t lose any wings.’

‘Oh,’ the boy brought the wings back to his chest. ‘I thought you lost them and it made you sad.’ After a slight pause the boy’s large blue eyes focussed on the old man again. ‘I don’t know whose they are. Can you help me?’

The old man was pleased to be able to help such a nice little boy. ‘Yes,’ the old man said, smiling even more. ‘Of course.’ So the old man stood up, brushing soil from his clothes, and took the little boy’s hand as they continued along the forest path.

The two of them were quiet as they continued hand in hand under the trees until the sound of a baby’s cry broke through the resting air. The little boy and the old man both hurried forward to discover a cradle in the middle of the path. Looking inside, the little boy saw a wriggling figure of a baby. Its face was scrunched up and its fists were balled and its tiny mouth was putting forth its worried little cries.

‘Oh,’ the little boy looked up to the old man. ‘Do you think he’s lost his wings? Is that why he’s crying?’

The old man couldn’t help but smile again. ‘No little one, I don’t think so.’ He ran a finger against the soft feathers held in the little boy’s grip. ‘The wings are small, but they aren’t small enough to be a baby’s wings.’

Considering this for a moment and looking between the baby and the wings, the little boy realised the old man was right. The wings were just a bit too big for the baby. ‘What should we do then?’ he asked.

‘I think it might be best if we kept going,’ the old man said as he picked up the cradle with one hand and took up the little boy’s hand with his other. ‘We’ll take this little munchkin with us and see if we can’t find its mummy, and we can keep looking for the one who’s lost his wings. How does that sound?’

The little boy smiled and nodded at the kind old man. The tiny baby was rocked by the gentle pace of their walking and fell asleep in its cradle; the quiet rustle of leaves settled around them.

Some time later the little boy heard yet more crying and compassion stirred again in his heart. He let go of the kind old man’s hand and ran forward towards the sound. Around the next corner he saw a young girl sitting at the edge of the path; she had her forehead to her knees and was crying into her hands. As he got closer to the young girl she looked up at him.

‘Please don’t be sad,’ he said. ‘Did you lose your wings?’ He held them out to her. ‘I found them for you.’

The young girl wiped her face and stood up, and the old man walked around the corner with the tiny baby. She held out her hands and the little boy gave her the wings. She smiled through her tears. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said looking at them and touching them in wonder. ‘But they’re not mine.’ She handed them back to the little boy. He looked down at them feeling sad again, but the young girl made him feel better by offering her help. ‘Would you like me to help you find the right person?’

‘Oh please,’ the little boy said. ‘Somebody’s lost their wings and I don’t know who it is.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied taking his hand and dabbing once more at her eyes. ‘We’ll find them.’

And so, together, all holding hands, they continued down the forest path in search of the angel with no wings.

Eventually the little boy’s search led them to a large meetinghouse. They went inside and found a kindly lady who was willing to help each of them find their way back to where they should be, but before they went their separate ways the old man took the kindly lady aside.

‘You see our little boy there,’ he motioned across the room. ‘Well, he found some wings in the forest and he would like to return them to the owner. Do you know who they belong to?’

The kindly lady smiled at the old man knowingly. ‘I see this little boy quite often,’ she said, looking at the little boy fondly. ‘He’s a guiding angel,’ she explained. ‘He finds lost travellers on the road and guides them here for safety. The wings are his wings.’

The old man’s heart warmed in his chest as he looked over to his little friend… his guiding angel. ‘Oh,’ he said gently. ‘And will he know they’re his wings now?’

‘If you give them to him, he’ll know,’ answered the kindly lady with a smile.

So the old man walked over to the little boy and asked to hold the wings. The little boy handed them over with overwhelming trust in his eyes, and the old man offered them back to him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as if they had just met. ‘Are these your missing wings?’

‘Oh yes!’ the little boy exclaimed taking the wings carefully. ‘Thank you, mister. Where did you find them?’

The old man smiled at the little boy with tears forming in his eyes. ‘A little angel gave them to me,’ he said. ‘For safe keeping.’

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Fire. He was lost in the colours of the flame, the gentle flick of its tips held him fast. His blank mind comforted something deep within him, something he wanted to forget. He shied away as it started to surface, and he allowed the heat to draw him back into his own dark emptiness.

Fire. There was something mesmerising in the simple destructive beauty of it all. It caught his mind in a web of scorching silk and he was grateful he couldn't shake himself free, because he knew if he did... what? What would he remember? Who would he remember?

Fire. It has no memory hidden in the depths of its light. It recalls nothing of life, nothing of death; there is nothing but ash in its wake. Oh for his dearest memories to become dust, for his pain to be burnt away and a hollow core to be all that remains. Yet even now he awakes from his trance and the real world comes crushing down...

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Half a minute passed as she looked back at each of the guards – their eyes fixed firmly ahead – and then at the back of the one in front. He was as a statue. So, timidly at first, she took a step towards the bowl. Nothing happened; they all remained in their trance, and a stealthy second and third pace brought her within reach of the bowl. She dropped to her knees and drank deeply from the silver gift, the water as cool and fresh as any she had ever tasted. It was gone quickly and instincts told her not to linger, so she placed the small basin down where it had been and reversed three innocent steps to the full extent of her restraint.

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She fought off the light-headedness and managed to get to her feet, at which point there was a persuading tug on the leash and she started walking behind the barbarian with the crushing voice. To the right, the troops began their hollering yet again, but this time it was the raucous bellow of celebration and she could see that an enormous feast had been joined. She’d never seen so much food in her life and, as tired as she was, the first smells that reached her were so good that warm saliva coated the inside of her cheeks. She did not slow her pace though, not for anything would she risk angering a man that could strike a blow with his words alone. So she walked, trying to stay alert in the mugginess of the day, but creeping towards a trudging haze nonetheless.

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Stray voices came to her from the left and she saw a small band of men approaching. They were all of them the same race as her captor and she now noticed the faint burgundy hue to their skin. Stopping a dozen strides away, the closest one spoke fluidly in a language Sophia could not identify. She could not even distinguish individual words – it was more like the melodic line of a classical song – but the chains passed from the back of the group made his meaning all too clear. Polished silver shackles were connected to a leather handle by a hundred or so finger-length loops and the man who had spoken brought them forward as the others held their positions with expert discipline.

Then came his voice.

She felt the weight on her shoulders double as the heavy, bass timbre of his voice sang a shockingly beautiful reply. It seemed to want to crush her under its authority, and she slumped, as wan as the grass she fell to.

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The noise continued unabated until her eyes were dry and a vital calm settled the shaking in her shoulders. She looked up with a detached anxiety as the tainted light parted with a silhouette and an eerie quiet followed the pounding in her ears. The shadow seemed almost demonic with the ruby aura surrounding it, and as it advanced on her, she saw a massive, broad-shouldered man emerge from the darkness. He towered over her and bore a resemblance to how she always imagined a ‘barbarian’ would look. He reached out a bare, amazingly muscular arm and spoke in a coarse voice with no discernable accent.

‘Come.’

At first she hesitated, but not having much choice in the matter she moved to take his hand. Before she got that far though, he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to her feet with cruel indifference to the jolt of pain that pierced her shoulder. She tried to resist his overwhelming strength but he drew her inexorably towards the light as if she were no more than a troublesome child.

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She was laying on the ground, feeling as if someone was pushing down on her chest, and this is how she first saw – uncomprehending – the horror of her new life. She tried to sit up, but as her mind cleared it was obvious that the pressure on her chest was not a lack of breath; it felt as if her whole body had been encumbered with a thousand tiny weights making her every movement an excessive struggle. After a few minutes’ attempt, she was on her feet, though her legs were already feeling the strain and she had to work to keep them steady. When she felt firmly planted, she raised her head and swallowed the details of the room down a throat that was somehow both raw and numb with disbelief. Her room had been transformed from a large, fairly neutral – yet comfortable – bedroom, to a rank, squalid, hole of a cell that stank of the besmirched smell of blood. Her wide eyes scanned the slimy-looking walls as she instinctively made small steps towards the centre of the space. Water trickled down one corner and made the perilous journey across the edge of the grimy stone floor to disappear through the wide gap at the bottom of the ill-fitting door. Seeing that door, and the way it was flimsily propped up against the frame, she moved quickly, ignoring the slippery feel it had against her palm, and pushed her way out to feel a strong heat blow her blonde hair back from her shoulders.

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a laboured breathing from behind her. She stood up and spun around, the broken mirror temporarily forgotten, to see a man in painter’s overalls doubled over with obvious strain standing at the foot of her bed.

‘How did you get in here?’ she asked, fighting down a bubble of hysteria. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

It was clear the man was not listening, but he caught his breath and eventually straightened to face her. He looked at her with haunted eyes, and then held his paint-stained hands in front of him with an expression of disbelief. ‘Seven years...’ he told himself. Then, as if finally noticing her, he surveyed the room quickly and fixed his eyes on the ruined mirror at her feet. The look he gave her then was less haunted and more pitying, and he moved his head gently from side to side. ‘Bad luck.’

‘What are you–’

‘Just remember,’ he interrupted. ‘It will end... eventually.’

And with that the room became unfocused... she felt strangely heavy; soon she couldn’t distinguish anything in her bedroom and she began to sink through the hazy, white floor. She should have screamed or panicked or something, but she just felt numb and helpless as she sank lower and lower into a white nightmare.

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Okay, actually, change of plans. I was going to continue with the spur of the moment stuff, but instead I'll copy in a bit of a story I'm working on at the moment in the hope that when I get to the end of what I've written, I'll be motivated to kick up the pace to get it finished for you. So here's the first little snippet, I hope you enjoy it:

Seven Years Bad Luck

She walked across the clean, wooden floor, stepping two passing prints into the white sheep’s wool rug, and sat down on the stool at her nightstand. Her nightdress was thin to counter the summer’s heat, and she took pleasure in brushing her fair hair with the window open just enough to stir a breeze. Scanning the lacy top of the stand, her eyes wondered over all the small, treasured possessions she’d been given over the years. As always, her gaze lingered on the tiny chip cutting into the side of her crystal ‘Sophia’ – the last present she had received from her mother’s mother.

Her brushing started up again as she rose back from childhood to stare once more at her reflection. Then, finally satisfied with the result, she picked up her ornate silver hand mirror, courtesy of an ex-boyfriend with whom she was still on good terms, and imagined herself to be the princess of a mystical land full of intrigue and handsome princes all perfectly willing to bow to her every whim. One would be massaging her head, another giving her a pedicure, a third feeding her grapes… a foot rub… a steaming hot bath… She could feel herself beginning to crave a spa visit, but as she moved to replace the mirror, the handle clipped the surface of her nightstand and fell to the floor. There was a moment or two in which she cursed her own clumsiness, but she did not have time to react until the top of the curve impacted the wood and she heard

* * *

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Discarded Thoughtfulness

As Andy reached up to the handle of his bedroom door, he stopped and listened again with his pillow grasped tightly under his left arm. He did not want to wake his mum, it was too early for her to be getting up. In fact, it was earlier than Andy could ever remember being up. He looked through the darkness to the red glow of his alarm clock - 6:15, with both the middle dots flashing on and off like an old friend winking at him, wishing him well on his mission. Excitement bubbled through him and he didn't feel at all tired. He pulled the handle down and opened the door slowly.

It was strange looking at the hallway in the eerie morning light when the cold still clung to his feet. The carpet was all wrong; the faint patterns looked different because of the milky-grey colour it had turned, but he ventured out with determination. He passed his mum's door and took his time to step over the single creaking floorboard just outside the bathroom. Success! The hallway had been passed and the stairs dropped away before him. He repositioned the pillow further under his arm and, putting a hand out to the balancing presence of the wall, he started the descent. The first few steps were no problem, good solid steps. Yet he knew that the hard part was yet to come. He continued down, counting carefully, and stretched over the seventh step. Eight, nine, ten. Then came the challenge. Not only did step number eleven make the most awful noise, but step number twelve also squeaked loudly. However, he had planned meticulously and now that planning would come into its own. He took the pillow in both his hands and held it out steadily. He breathed two deep breaths and gently tossed the landing pad to the bottom of the stairs. It tottered for a moment before flopping with a soft puff into the perfect position. Andy smiled and bent his knees just enough to spy the morning sun through the window above the front door. It lit his sandy hair golden and covered the green of his eyes in copper. Then he was flying for the briefest of moments - there were only four steps left after all - and landed uncomfortably, but safe, inches from the door.

That was it, he had made it. He rushed to put on his trainers, the pillow's glory forgotten at the foot of the stairs, and hurried to the back door. The key was in the lock and he winced even at the tiny click it made. Then he was out in the morning air, cold in the shadow of the house, but exhilarated all the same. This is why he was up early - the sight of hundreds of red flowers just waiting to be sorted through. The task seemed endless; their garden wasn't very big, but his mum really did like red flowers and they had sprung up right round the edge of the small space. He rubbed his hands together like he had seen his granddad do just before starting a job, and then he was in among the flower heads. He looked at each one individually, dismissing all of them in turn, looking for the perfect one.

The mud coated the bottom of his trainers in less than ten minutes but the velvety feel of petals still seemed new at each and every touch. Given a big enough garden, there was no reason why he couldn't do this all day. A few heads stood apart from the rest and Andy had to start smelling them to narrow the possibilities. He had eventually reduced the candidates to four particular flowers. There was the big one, ten layers of flower heads at least. It looked like a tiny apartment building he had seen on the television, only bright red and sweet smelling. Then there was the rose, the only one he knew by name. It was nice enough, but there was something about roses that just didn't sit right with Andy. He left it in the final four for now, but knew it would end up being the first to go. The last two were the real contenders. One had six petals of red with a line of yellow running down each of them to meet in the middle of the flower in a big patch of sun-like colour. There were also six wormy arms of yellow stretching out from the middle with tiny little black dots on the ends. It smelled wonderful and was the best looking of its kind with not a blemish on it, but as he turned his attention to the last prize he had found, he knew with youthful certainty that this was the one he would take. It was perfect. Red all over, it looked like one big petal with wavy rumples in it. There were dark lines that looked the same as the circles in a tree trunk, and right in the middle it was such a dark red that it was almost black. But the deciding factor was the single white-speckled leaf halfway up the stem. He looked at it for a while and eventually plucked it with a practiced hand. Then, his mission an overwhelming success, he trotted back into the house to find his mum up and his breakfast waiting. What a start to the day!

Transporting the flower to school would have been the hit-or-miss part of the plan, but his mum had driven him in so that it would get there safely. Now here he stood in the playground, faded chalk on the ground at his feet. And he held the flower out to the love of his life. He couldn't have imagined a more perfect execution as she smiled at him with her dimples showing briefly, and took the gift gracefully. Brightness built in his heart and his own smile beamed. Then, just as easily as she had fulfilled his dreams, she turned and ran away with her friends, the flower released from her hand as soon as she reached the grassy area. It floated to the earth silently and bounced gently on the soft, green carpet. He stood, transfixed by the injustice, and no one saw the tears that started running down his cheeks.

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Darkness Hidden

A planet. A ring of flame. A scorching heat none can avoid. The night sky is alight and there is pain awaiting the darkness of the world. And yet darkness persists in the lowest sections of the soul, those places where we dare not even admit to ourselves the things that go on. We hide them within and smile without, the emptiness they bring numbs the horror of what they are. And so even with the eternal burn of fire from overhead something unspeakable survives in the cores of those whom it effects the most. Do you know what it is I describe? Do you dare look so far down into your own thoughts, your hidden desires, your basic instincts, that place where you keep secrets even from yourself?

It's there. Within each of us. This unbidden potential for absolute despair. Despair in how we see ourselves. Despair in what it is we do to each other, what it is we do to innocents so much younger than ourselves, what it is we do to turn them into people just like us. How is it that the untouchable quality of children is so completely abolished, that complete trust, that immensely beautiful fragility, the essence that we all lose, that we all throw away in our hurry to become just like those who yearn to be young again.

How is the child buried? The compacted dirt pressing down on the chilling corpse, the birth of something hideous from the youngster's death. Is there an outside influence? A streaming hand covered in virgin blood? Or do we look down and discover that the crimson stain drips from our own fingers? Do we forge the knife and grasp the hilt, the blade reversed? Is that how it is? Is that how it must be? Is there anyone who can answer me or is the answer drawn down to that self same coffin beyond the reach of the fire? That area of horrors that houses the moments we wish we could forget, the thoughts we wish we could banish, the desires we would kill had we but the strength of ten thousand broken hearts, a strength that would take the pain of the world to achieve, a strength beyond the hands of any who would take hold, a strength hovering around each of those fragmented hearts, the bleeding pieces obscuring the very way to destroy everything they now hold dear, everything that hurts and everything that causes their own addictive pain.

Could we but hold it up to the fire. Can we not take hold of that darkness, that pain, the loss of all we use to hold close, the loss of everything we now envy in the eyes of those we used to be, those we hope to be, those we can be if only the fire would scour our hearts clear of pain, of obscuration, of anything that stops us seeing the power we hold in the shattered edges of ourselves. Then might we be able to revert, might we once again raise the coldness from the bodies of our youths? Is it possible to forget all we have learnt simply by holding our knowledge up to the light and casting it into the flames? Without the darkness is the resurrection of what we once were possible? Can we go back once more to a time when the darkness had not sunk so low in us, had not wormed its way down below the reach of light, of heat, of awareness, had not become such a part of us that we even deny its existence? Such a wonder is this hope, this simple thought of being as we were and never having been as we are, such a dream as perhaps no one has ever had since being a child and dreaming of the wonders to come, the wonders we now know to be nothing more than lost visions of joy everlasting, joy such as we had, joy we didn't recognise until it was too late, until now.

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No Muse

No muse.
How can one write without a muse?
This fickle thing called inspiration
How to capture a dream without it?

There is emptiness
No,
Dullness
A lethargy that blunts the cutting edge of a mind

How to write
When that which one writes about is dead?
Does one describe death?
How?

A slow creeping darkness?
Or the sudden onslaught of blinding pain,
Then nothing?
Or peace?

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Dark Horse

Jake’s life was okay. This is true on some levels. False on others.

Walking down the main street of some fictional village, he tipped his hat after slaying a beast not unlike a dragon. The green scales and extended snout had proved somewhat problematic, but eventually the unholy thing had succumbed to bravery and nobility. And now, as he straightened his hat again, chivalry would no doubt give way to passion and a long, sleepless night up in Billy’s RestHouse with a slim brunette…

Jake put down the book, his imagination trailing away, and sighed to the empty room. ‘I need a girlfriend.’ He looked down at the single piece of burnt pizza crust laying on his plate and sighed again. ‘One who likes cooking.’ Why did he even use a plate for pizza? What was the point? He sighed for a third time, stood up in the small, pastel-orange living room, and bent to retrieve his plate. He left the half glass of red wine on the heat-stained coffee table next to his book.

Five minutes later, when the sink was full and bubbly, the washing up took all of thirty seconds and the water ran clear down the drain leaving a mass of froth around the plughole like the gaping mouth of a rabid dog. ‘Albeit a small dog.’ Jake lifted his gaze from the sink and scrutinized the spotless kitchen, everything was clean and in its place, all was right with the world. ‘Screw a girlfriend,’ he muttered musing slightly on the unintentional wording. ‘Anyone’ll do, I just need some sort of social contact.’ Frowning dramatically, his voice took on the deep, resonating quality of a confident doctor. ‘Why, certainly you do, if you’re talking to yourself!’ He coughed a guttural laugh; there was no point in even pretending to look around to see if anyone had watched his display, but he hung his head all the same. ‘Always alone.’

He walked glumly back to his wine and tried to return to a world where he could say the right words and do the right things to make up a life just a bit more picturesque than his own.

Another twenty minutes and the evening ablutions were past, the lights were out, and Jake was curled up in the final room of his apartment ignoring the sound of cars passing numbly in the distance. He tossed a few times, staring up at the grey ceiling, then at the grey walls, then at the grey computer on the grey desk underneath the closed, grey curtains. Thoughts unworthy of remembering paced through his mind until they had completed the subtle transformation into something wonderfully lost in his sleeping mind.

When he woke to the stabbing alarm that filled the small bedroom, it was not the sharp, heart-pounding jerk that would have woken him instantly, but the groggy, haze-filled world that clung to his thoughts as he struggled to get out of bed. He sludged to the tiny en-suite shower room, which was actually little more than a toilet room with a drain in the middle of the floor, and punched down on the clock’s off button as he passed. He’d had to move it onto the computer desk to ensure he was out of bed before turning it off for fear of the snooze button – that had been a cruel, cruel invention.

Half an hour later, body washed, teeth cleaned, and breath minty, Jake threw his towel on the bed and got dressed in his usual work suit and blue tie, upon which there was a faint diamond pattern traced in a lighter, almost cyan, colour. Then after replacing the wet towel on the radiator he opened the curtains, drowning the room in early-morning sun. The walls lit up to display their pale green beauty but Jake was already moving through the door, his mind only now parting with its desire to finish sleeping. He continued through the front room to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl full of some cereal or other that would apparently help keep his heart healthy. Of course, reading the small print – as he found himself doing almost every morning – this promise seemed fully dependant upon him doing nothing else in his life to harm his heart. ‘That never really seems fair,’ he said to the box. ‘Do you really help keep my heart healthy, or do you merely do it no harm?’ He sighed lightly and swallowed another mouthful. ‘Not that it matters either way, you still taste good.’

Then it was out the door, a smudged grey colour on the outside, along the dim corridor that had probably last been decorated in the late sixties – just as the drugs were wearing off – down two flights of stairs and out into the fresh morning air. It was late spring and, although everything still had that air of damp and heavy fragrance to it, the downpours were less frequent, and the sun was clawing back its intensity.

The day passed, and after far too many hours of boredom, Jake exited the frightfully bland office building having spoken less than a dozen words since entering. The first few had been at the copy machine...

He stood there waiting patiently as the little red light on the top of the machine also maintained its vigil. It would have to turn green sometime. Why was it even red in the first place? Another guy in another suit had just successfully used it, so it should be ready and waiting to satisfy its next customer. Ah, there we go, finally green–

‘Hey, I don’t suppose I could be terribly rude and sneak these in just before you, could I?’

The voice was that of Vicky Johnson, the department supervisor – he could hardly say “no, find your own copier” could he?

‘Um, yeah, sure Vicky.’

‘Thanks,’ she said with a wink and a smile. ‘I’ll just be a sec.’

My boss’ boss just winked at me – how do you respond to something like that? He fiddled a little with his tie as the machine did its work, and fresh, warm sheets of paper eased their way out of its mouth.

‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘All done.’ And, as easy as that she moved off without looking back, leaving behind her another little red light.

... and the last had been on his way out...

It’s over, another day finished, and another lonely night to come. He turned off the computer and shuffled a few papers around his desk; he re-shuffled them; he picked them up and tapped them together against the wooden surface and placed them neatly in the corner opposite the mouse. Tilting his head to the right a little, he assessed the situation. He lined-up a pen with the side of the keyboard, and then put the same pen in the holder next to the monitor. The desk looked very empty now, so he returned the pen, together with an additional matching pencil, next to the keyboard to look like parallel train tracks.

A final scrutiny, and everything seemed right, so he struck a measured pace through the dark alleys between cubical screens, making his usual observations. People should put more pictures on the outside of their walls – it’d brighten up my day. He smiled to himself. Maybe each one should have a single letter, so as I walked by it would read ‘Have a nice evening, Jake’. Wouldn’t that be nice? I wonder if anyone would notice if I did that, I could do a letter a day during my lunch hour. And I could colour them in, each a different colour starting with dark purple and running the length of the rainbow to finish with a bright, smiley, yellow.

‘Goodnight.’ A word as regular as clockwork as he passed through the grey entrance hall of his floor.

‘Goodnight,’ he replied, as he did every day. ‘See you tomorrow.’ His very soul sighed at those words; No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow for the rest of my life.

... and that was it, his whole day condensed to eight words. So, as he walked down the street, with the smelly fumes of passing cars hanging familiar in the air, he was surprised to see something different in his routine. The light in the distance had a strange look to it, like when buildings are bathed in light even though there are dark clouds overhead – only this was the opposite effect. Something far away had a hollow, black shade of colour despite the lingering light of the early summer evening.

He stopped his walking and narrowed his eyes, straining to focus on this anomaly. Was it getting bigger?

It is getting bigger. He felt his head lean to the right as he considered what it might be. His legs started backtracking of their own accord when he appreciated the possibility of it being a swarm of insects – maybe bees – but he soon stopped again as the form coalesced into a recognisable shape.

A horse and rider? Dressed all in black? I bet I’m not the only one who backs away from this guy, or the only one who thinks ‘Horseman of the Apocalypse’.

Jake continued his slow walking, but he soon felt a thin layer of sweat coat his palms. Something isn’t right here. The figure was still closing, but there were no details being resolved. It was like watching a three-dimensional shadow, or an apparition – a dark ghost or something. A shudder wound its way around and down Jake’s core. He walked numbly to the side of the path where his knees locked and it was all he could do to watch the thing advance.

And advance it did, at a trot, and Jake watched with eyes that bulged at little more every minute. It was completely shadowed, as if it was a giant, fluid piece of black origami paper. The head had no face; the horse had no eyes, and no coat of hair, though when the tail flicked Jake thought he could see individual strands of darkness flicker against a background of light and life.

His fists clenched, and his heart battered helplessly against his chest as the sinister-looking spectre stopped level with him and that spooky, featureless face turned in his direction. In that instant he was brought out of the trance that held him so tightly by the simple fact that he almost wet himself with fear. He tightened his hold on his bladder and, determined to do what any innocent, uncertain man would do, he ignored the vision of death and started pacing slowly back towards his home. Safety.

Seven and a half minutes later, and Jake was less scared and more worried. He had passed three people and none of them had even glanced at the mounted man following him along the side of the road. I must be going crazy. Well, that’s a bit of a relief; craziness, to be sure, is something to be more concerned about, but it’s not quite as frightening as the end of the world. I don’t think. So he halted his homeward bound progress, and turned to look up at the phantom of his imagination.

He looked into the emptiness of the hollow face with a calm curiosity – he had never really been afraid of the dark, and there was sense almost akin to comfort oozing from it. How strange.

Then, suddenly, the scene rotated and Jake was looking down at himself from a height. Only it wasn’t him, it was a thin man – a stranger – wearing a suit and peering up with a searching look in his eyes. Jake retreated from that questioning look with a small amount of pressure on the reins. His horse took two silent steps backwards. What was he even doing here, looking at sad, unfortunate people stuck in miserable lives? I have the world to explore, and the ability to do it. And with that thought, he guided his loyal stallion away from the lonely native and back to a realm where the light was not quite so obvious, the lives not quite so monotonous, and the possibility of love not quite so grievous.

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Lost to the world, he was startled when the sound of a gentle crunch announced a visitor to his grief. He looked up and saw a young child walking slowly towards him, uncertain in her steps.

‘Hello,’ she said softly. Only a few paces away now and Death could see the mud stain on her yellow T-shirt, the deep youth in her eyes, and the fearless sorrow she felt for this stranger. ‘Don’t be sad.’

She sat down next to him, her clothes shining a pale light on his own sombre dress, and carefully nudged the scythe with her foot. It scraped on the stones and she stopped.

‘Mummy says everything will be okay and she gives me kisses on my ouchies.’ She didn’t say anything else but took his arm and leaned against him as only a child can. A few moments passed and, although he had expected to feel worse with her appearance, Death didn’t feel so bad anymore. He stood up with the scythe in one hand and the little girl taking the other. She led him to the end of the garden path and waved a loving goodbye before returning to her front door and the tragic fairness of life.

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The Seven Cardinal Cinquains

Lust
Sexual desire
Looking, wanting, needing
Obsessive thoughts of others
Covet

Gluttony
Over-indulgence
Eating, consuming, exceeding
Nothing is ever enough
Nimis

Greed
Insatiable acquisition
Increasing, longing, craving
Always yearning for more
Avarice

Sloth
Idle laziness
Wasting, despairing, uncaring
Depressing lack of zeal
Apathy

Wrath
Spiteful revenge
Loathing, raging, hating,
An uncontrollable, overwhelming abhorrence
Anger

Envy
Despising happiness
Wishing, aspiring, desiring
Sorrow over another’s joy
Begrudge

Pride
Conceited narcissism
Overbearing, presuming, preening
Excessive love of oneself
Arrogance

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Why have I never been loved?

**

First thing I've ever written where the title is longer than the body .

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2. What celebrity do you most read about right now?
None. The occasional movie star, but not really.

3. Have you ever slid down a stair case railing, or climb a tree?
Naturally

4. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up, and did you ever get to do that?
Wanted to be a teacher for some reason so, although I'm teaching English and not maths, yeah .

5. If you could only drink and eat five things for the rest of your life, what would they be?
Copella - apple and elderflower pressed juice (lightly chilled)
Mangoes
Crisps (pretty much any type)
Mum's home-made lasagne
Chocolate

6. Three favourite music groups at the moment?
Show of Hands, Ben Folds, Snow Patrol

7. Three favouirte books at the moment?
Only reading Jonathan Strange and Dr Norrell at the moment, and I haven't read much else in a few months, but Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors and Stephen King's Shawshank Redemption were both well worth reading.

8. If you were going to spend an evening with one person, who would that be?
You.

9. Sartre said that "Hell is other people." Who would be your hell?
Me.

10. What section of the newspaper do you traditionally read first, and what section do you read last?
I actually never got into the whole reading the newspaper thing, so I'd have to say the cartoons to both .

Now for that short story. Do you notice anything strange about it?

Friday 13th

So, I’m not living, but I know my rights. You can’t just bury my body six down and think I’ll stay put. That’s not on. I’ll climb out, again and again; I’ll just carry on climbing. I won’t put up with staying in this rotting pool of sorrow, particularly as most wouldn’t know what I am.

Oh, you think you would? You think a walking human carcass is an obvious thing to spot? It’s not. A month, that’s how long I hung about a local pub, just itching to go in, watching all of you sitting around with your pints, cool, bracing liquid flowing down your throats on a hot, spring day.

You just don’t grasp how unfulfilling it is not having a spirit, a soul, an opportunity to go through boring, daily motions with that knowing joy of fantastic things constantly occurring around you. How can you discount all individuals of sub-living status just for having such unlucky conditions? I know, I display a slightly dirty odour to your sanity, but pity is a word you should think upon. I would thank you for it.

Anyway, today is a day I don’t mind. Friday 13th. A day anything can go wrong, and probably will, so I’ll snatch my own count of humour and fun as I punish you all for ignoring such a sad individual, as I know I am. I’ll think of a prank so brilliantly all-consuming that it will multiply out in strips of disastrous actions that rip into any spirits and minds that try to stand against it.

No, I don’t know what it is just now, but I’ll think on it, and as Friday 13th looms, I’ll bask in your worry. Is it this Friday? Is it now? How will you know? And any bad things that occur during now and that day you join us, you’ll think was that it? Was that him punishing us, or was it just foul luck? And so, Friday 13th will always haunt you as a day awful things hit hard.

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Forgiven and unintentionally loved,
Hidden horror!
Never beyond hope, or dreams,
Yet trapped… dying.

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Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged.

1. What I was doing 10 years ago:

This makes me feel nice and young. Ten years ago I was looking forward to the end of my second year in secondary school - six weeks summer holiday back then, that's a lot more than I get this year .

2. What 5 things are on on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):

Write lesson plans for this coming week
Buy some more food
Cook and eat said food
Hang up the washing
Write a quick short story for the end of this post - check

3. Snacks I enjoy:

Crisps
Chocolate/sweets
Peanuts
Yoghurt

Probably in that order too.

4. Things I would do if I was a billionaire:

Travel
Buy houses for my family members
Travel
Buy some land in Uganda and plant trees
Travel
Publish a book, even if I had to buy the publishing place
Travel
Get an unpaid job in conservation or charity
And I've forgotten something, oh yes, travel

5. Places I have lived:

England
Scotland
South Korea

I tag the following:

Reinette58
the-living-dead
nuvolenere
oldblindog
(I'll leave it at four, as I think a lot of you other guys have already had it.)

Okay, now for the very short story:

Truth? You want the truth? No, I don't think you do, not really. You do? Are you sure? Cos if you're sure, I'll tell you. I don't mind being frank about it. Fine. You really want to know what I think? Well, I don't like it. There I said it. I don't like you. I don't like my role in your life. I hate what you've reduced me to. Everyday you throw your rubbish at me, expecting me to be able to deal with it all, as if that's all I am to you. I can't take it anymore; I'm tired of always being there for you. When have you ever been there for me? You leave me out in the cold, the wind, the rain of my life. You open and shut my mouth as if I'm a puppet in your little show. You never invite me in, and you never give me the best of what you have... not until it's the worst. Every week you leave me in the hands of strangers, people who disrespect me, people who throw me around and leave me battered and tired in the early hours of the morning. I can't do it anymore. Even with the lemon-perfumed bin bags you've started using, it just isn't worth it. I quit. Find yourself a new wheelie bin.

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The frenzied activity continued to stir the air above the desk, while nothing else in the dark room moved.

‘Perfect,’ muttered the hunched figure to himself. He reread the lines he had just written, the epic poem coalescing at the touch of his ink-stained fingertips. His mind was working so fast that the words spilled onto the page fevered and hot from the momentum. Another three lines written and the distant end was already forming at the back of his mind. He allowed himself no time to smile – he had to get it down onto paper first.

Overcast curtains covering the room’s single window served to deaden the afternoon sunlight. He did not feel the emptiness of the house or the clothes on his body, he only felt the indentations in his fingers, only smelt the wine-like perfume of the drying ink.

Another flawless verse finished, though he paused briefly to scrutinise each word, to reassess the placing of every character. One stood out from all the rest. The first uncertainty in days.

‘Connivance, connivance, connivance…’ the word rolled over and over. ‘What’s wrong with you,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you fit?’

He felt a presence in his room and waved a sharp hand over one shoulder. ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I’m busy.’ The word needed changing. ‘Connivance, collusion, conspiracy…’

The feeling was still there, sucking at his concentration. He turned to look, his movements secretive, but saw only the wooden frames of bookshelves and a closed door. He turned back. ‘Conspiracy, collusion – one of you might do…’

‘Might do?’ said a voice that was so quiet it mixed with his own thoughts. ‘Is that good enough?’

‘That’s not good enough,’ he said crossly to the words. ‘Conspiracy, collusion. Cabal perhaps?’

‘Scheme,’ said the voice drifting through his mind.

‘Scheme?’ he scoffed. ‘No, it needs to be a ‘c’ word. Cabal, that works.’

‘Beware being constrained by the structure of the poem,’ said the strange influence.

‘An amateur mistake,’ he said, the pen edging its way back to a deadly heroin. ‘Not one I would make.’ But his hand stopped and hovered, its craving unsatisfied, as he reconsidered.

‘Perhaps cabal is better.’ There was a humble quality to the utterance.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said. ‘A master is beyond limitations – cabal confines my skills.’ His mind raced through the possibilities. ‘Scheme is the word that I have to use.’

‘You truly are a master.’ The tone was heavier, the presence refined.

‘Of course I am,’ he said. The pen moved again, though it was slower now, and another doubt surfaced before the next verse closed. ‘Treacherous?’ he queried with a narrowing of sunken eyes. ‘Treacherous, deceitful, devious?’

‘Underhanded?’

Silence – through which not even time dared breathe its gentle caress. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s simpler, but it puts emphasis on the following phrase.’ He made the correction and continued with a critical eye. A few lines of uninterrupted virtuosity, and then he gripped the pen until the very ink inside it was warmed by the angry flow of his blood. This entire line grated against the feel of the section. He read and reread it, but no other way to phrase it came to mind. His frustration built. ‘Well?’

A moment of nothing. ‘Might it work better if the line was removed altogether?’ suggested the voice from close behind him.

A quick glance over his shoulder. No one. He looked back to the line. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Maybe it would.’

The pen slowed its scrawl to a lethargic pace as he started second-guessing every word he wrote. ‘Completed?’ he asked. ‘Or finished?’

‘Done,’ was all he heard.

‘Done? A one-syllable word there?’ It was unconventional, but as he thought on it a little longer, he found he liked the idea. ‘Yes, done.’ The alteration was made, but as the pen returned to the paper to scratch its way to glory, the hand that held it froze. His mind had gone completely blank; the endless store of words and half-formed sentences had evaporated to leave nothing but a craving for renewal. He pulled his hand back, the pen feeling awkward against the tips of his fingers for the first time in decades. ‘No,’ he demanded of himself. ‘It was all there, ready, waiting.’ His eyes cast around for something – anything – to rekindle his lost inspiration, but everything he could see just looked dirty and abused; there was nothing that would ignite the flames once again.

‘Help me!’ he whispered harshly to the voice. Again, there was a pause before it replied, and now the humility was spent.

‘I have helped you,’ it said.

‘No,’ he cried softly. ‘I need more.’

‘More?’ It seemed to be judging. ‘Any more, and there will be a cost.’

‘Fine, whatever it takes,’ he said quickly, hunched protectively over the paper. ‘I need this.’

‘Then it will take everything.’

‘Yes, done!’ he said, thinking only of his precious work. ‘You can have it all, just give me this.’

There was no change in the room, no flash of red, no tainted breeze; all that happened was a single word from the unseen angel. ‘Agreed.’

In that instant a flood of understanding and knowledge broke his mind. The pen soared across the paper with unrivalled intensity, the heat building to a climax that burst to reveal sincere flames of orange and gold. He let go screams of laughter as the final words of the masterpiece were layered with splashes of melted skin.

*

As the last of the embers were being quenched by the local fire department – several hours later – it was noted as suspicious that the only thing to survive the inferno also seemed to be the point of origin. One of the men on the team picked up the unscathed pieces of paper and read a few lines. In the following investigation he had been asked about it, but all he could say was that it had started out as poetry, and had trailed off into a broken collection of random words. It was nothing important.

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Twilight. Eight letters long, a word that sends mystical shivers down my spine. Something so simple, so absolutely, wonderfully, magically, amazingly... simple. I love twilight, it's the best time of the day. For me, it's the only time of the day. It's the moment I come alive, the moment when everything in the world makes sense. Yes, even the senseless pain and suffering of humanity twists and turns until it resembles something I recognise as a pattern - a horrifically cold pattern, and yet beautiful just the same. I can see the pink lashes of clouds stiking out from the west, and I can see the hovering, uncertain moon peeking out from behind dark and ominous clouds in the east.

It's the moon that I wait for, the fair beacon of my life, its steely light so much more sensitive than the glaring oppression of the sun. We are lovers, the moon and I. It's a passionate affair that taps into the desperate need itching just below the surface of my skin. It's an insatiable need, one I am powerless to deny - should I ever want to. But I don't. I welcome it.

The stain of the sun is slowly dying from the sky, the moon shifting out in the smallest of increments. It's nearly time, and already I can smell the waning perfume of flowers clawing back to life... being clawed back to life.

The first I know of it is the crisp smell to the chill in the air. Then suddenly comes the ripping pain of flesh being torn from my body. I elate in the torture - I am reborn once more. Minutes it continues and every second of agony is ecstacy flowing through my vains. I can feel the needle-like sprouting of hair. I can feel the way my feet rest deeper in the dirt, and how my claws sink down to grasp at the earth. My mouth widens in an aching yawn that breaks my jaw, only to reform with teeth forcing their pointed fingers through my gums.

Finished. I rest on the mud, my coat warming my blood for the coming hunt, my breath steaming in the warmth of the evening, my pulse racing in response to the glorious disc overhead. I can smell meat. Fresh, living, meat. And I run.

I can move faster than anyone would expect. I race through the dark streets of the world and remain unseen in the shadows. Onwards I speed, the wind brushing the layers of hair in rivers down my back, the moon strengthening my thirst with its ever-present guard. And then I see you. Alone.

I offer no defence for my actions - I am the animal. And so I slice into the heat of your body with an unequalled vigor. My teeth grate along your bones as the glutton in my beastly self comes to the fore. I do not relish your flavour, I do not lick the blood from my face, I only sing to the night of the accomplishment of my strength, I live in the wake of your death, and I move on to find my next victim before the sun rises in its burning hatred and banishes me yet again to the confines of the likes of you...

(End)

Hmmm, what does it say about me that when I started out with that first line, I fully intending to write a non-fiction piece about how much I like to write just as it's getting dark and I should be thinking about going to bed? Like now, for instance . Night to all - actually, it's probably still day back in England, but have a good one either way.

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Is a Fable Still a Fable if it Doesn’t Have a Moral Lesson?

One day, a tree standing alone in the middle of a grand forest saw a man walking by. The tree called out to the man.

‘Hello, there,’ the tree said.

‘Hello,’ the man replied, ‘what can I do for you?’

The tree thought it was very kind of the man to ask, and realised that there was something it needed help with. ‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ started the tree, ‘I’ve been trying to bear fruit for a long time with no success. Could you help me?’

The man looked at the tree for a moment, and then – not unkindly – he asked, ‘Why should I help you?’

‘Hmm,’ the tree thought for a while, but in the end it admitted to the man that there was no reason for him to help.

‘I think it’s good of you to be honest,’ the man told the tree, ‘but I’m going to help you anyway.’

The tree was pleased, and the man smiled as he cut the end of one of his fingers with a knife; he dropped blood onto the soil around the tree. ‘Thank you,’ said the tree, and the man nodded and moved on.

A few days later, after the tree had fully absorbed the strength from the man’s blood, the man walked by again. This time he came over to the tree without being called, and the tree voiced its thanks for the second time, ‘I really appreciated your gift,’ said the tree, ‘I can already feel the beginnings of the fruit process.’

‘I’m glad I could help,’ said the man, ‘and if you even need me again…’

They stood together in silence for a short time before the tree spoke. ‘Well, actually – and I know it’s asking a lot – but, could you spare a few more drops?’

The man seemed to smile at the request, ‘Of course,’ he said simply. He sprinkled a generous helping of red at the base of the tree and sucked his finger until the liquid stopped flowing.

‘Thank you so much,’ said the tree, ‘I don’t know why you’re so kind, but you’re really helping me to produce some fruit.’

‘Oh, not at all,’ the man shrugged off the thanks, ‘you asked, and I said yes, that’s all.’

They continued talking for a little bit before the man went on his way, but that night the tree considered the words of the man and found that they did not satisfy the tree’s growing curiosity.

Another five days passed, and the man came walking through the forest towards the tree.

‘Hello,’ said the tree, ‘it’s nice to see you again.’

‘Thank you,’ replied the man, ‘it’s nice to see you again, too.’ They held a contented silence for a short while, and then the man spoke. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘and I’d like to help you through the entire fruit-bearing process.’

The tree was taken aback, but it agreed and was very grateful to the man. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ said the tree later, ‘but why are you helping me?’

The man smiled at the tree. ‘Do I need a reason to want to help?’

‘Not at all,’ answered the tree, ‘but I think there is one nonetheless.’

The man nodded sensibly but his only words were, ‘Well, I’ll let you think about it.’

From then on the man visited the tree everyday, giving it a little more strength and providing it with much welcomed conversation. The tree, in turn, asked the man why he was helping each time he arrived, only to receive the same reply – I’ll let you think about it.

This continued for several years, and then many decades, by which time the tree had produced good fruit numerous times. Eventually, however, the tree grew old and it knew its time to die was near. It was then that the tree asked the man for an answer…

‘Will you not satisfy the curiosity of an old tree?’ it asked the man.

‘Even though we’ve been set in our ways for so long?’ said the man, a familiar smile on his lips.

‘Even though,’ the tree told him.

‘Okay,’ said the man cleanly, ‘I will tell you.’ He leaned against the flaking bark and continued, ‘You are not the biggest, nor the strongest tree in the forest, but your fruit is as sweet as any other, and your manner is just as gentle. So, there was no reason why you should be chopped down and thrown into the fire, especially when you were willing to ask for help.’

The tree thought carefully about the man’s words all through the night, and when the man appeared again the next day – the tree’s end only a few days away now – it had perceived that there was yet more to the explanation.

‘More?’ asked the man.

‘Yes,’ the tree said, ‘something subtle, but important.’

At that, the man laid an affectionate hand on the trunk of the tree and smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is one more thing. It’s simply that I love you.’

The tree felt the truth of the words, but it still did not understand. ‘Why?’ it asked the man.

‘Why do I love you?’ the man asked in return.

‘Yes,’ confirmed the tree, ‘there are many other bigger and better trees in the forest. Why do you love me out of all the others?’

The man looked at the tree compassionately. ‘I love all of the trees in the forest.’

‘Why?’ asked the tree again, ‘some of them – me included, had it not been for your help – don’t even bear fruit. Why would you love us so much?’

The warmth from the man’s palm was amazing to the tree, but the answer he gave was even more so, and when the tree died – three days later – the words of the man were still cradled deep within it, treasured as nothing else had ever been…

‘Because it was I who planted you.’

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Hi, having read all the entries, I think you know me – Kelly. I found this diary a number of months ago, but I didn’t have the heart to write in it. Not until today.

It would have been Josh’s 34th birthday today–

I’m sorry, I thought I was ready.

I hope the tears stain; it’ll suit the entry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bitter either, it’s just, I loved him.

He died 6 months and 3 days ago.

We were in western Uganda when he got sick from some local disease – the doctors never found out what it was. He loved it out there. Ever since that first trip, he couldn’t get enough – he had to help everyone he could. Giving the money wasn’t enough, he had to be there. That’s why I loved him so much.

I found an eng–

I found an engagement ring in his things, when I finally went through them. It’s beautiful; I wear it for him. I don’t know if I’ll ever take it off.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

I think I just, I wanted you to know. Is that silly?
Well, that’s it, the final entry. Know that–

Know that I loved him.

Poignant thought for the day: Joshua

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I’m in Africa! Right now as I right this down!! We’re in an eastern part of Kenya, and you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve seen! And yes, all told, those four exclamation marks are well deserved .

I’ve seen things I never thought I’d see. I’ve seen things I wouldn’t have imagined. And unfortunately I’ve seen some things I never wanted to see. But we’re making a difference – maybe not to the entire country, or even the entire town, but at least to those people that get to use the houses we build, or farm food from the land and tools we buy them. It’s amazing. They treat us like royalty, giving us stuff they would never even consider buying for themselves. We get the best meat, the best reception, and on one notable occasion we got the use of two rooms in a three-room house when there was only five of us, and seven members of the family. But no matter what we did, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s ridiculous, sometimes I’ve just got to stop and breathe and take it all in. I never imagined this kind of life was possible for me. How can I be so happy doing nothing but giving to other people?

I wouldn’t swap these last few weeks for the world.

Okay, I’ve got to go, we’re on the move again, and the dust is making it harder to write without scratching the paper.

Poignant thought for the day: I’ll copy one from above – how is it possible to be so happy just by giving everything you have to other people? It’s like it’s what I was built for… maybe it was .

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Life is good again! Believe it or not, Kelly and I are together. I know! It’s kind of been coming on very slowly for a while now, but it’s official. At the risk of sounding like a lovesick fool, she’s just fantastic. Yeah, that definitely sounding a bit lovesick .

I hardly know what to do with myself.

We’ve been working together on one of her charity things – it organises groups to go out to Africa and do some volunteer work there, and of course with me as part of the set-up (not to sound too arrogant or anything) we’ve made a sort of partnership between the firm and the charity. Joe was great, and now there’s a steady stream of good money going straight to the floor of Africa.

Maybe I should go out on one of the trips and see what it’s like to build a house for someone? Hmm, that’s an idea actually, maybe I should go along on one of the trips.

Poignant thought for the day: Having lots of money can make you happy, so long as you know what to do with it.

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Ah, diary, my friend, we’ve had a rocky path haven’t we? But I think the road ahead will be a little straighter, a little smoother, and perhaps a little more enjoyable.

Poignant thought for the day: I think that was it .

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Hey, not going so badly now – I’m back on my feet and had my one year soberversary last month, and it felt good. I even had a girlfriend for a while – Stefani – but it didn’t take. No hard feelings on either side, though.

I got in touch with Kelly a couple of weeks ago – we’ve been emailing for a few months now, but I gave her a call and we’re going to meet up soonish. Looking forward to it like a schoolboy – I’ve missed her so much. She’s been living just outside of London somewhere, helping out with charities or something – not entirely sure what she’s been doing, but she seems to be enjoying it, which is good.

Maybe she could use a hand – or am I being a bit ahead of myself?

Poignant thought for the day: It’s not the money that does it to people, it’s not even the freedom, it’s the weaknesses in themselves. I think everyone has weaknesses, but only some people’s weaknesses are particularly susceptible to money and freedom. Other people’s weaknesses, of course, have their own problems.

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I feel so stupid seeing that last entry. I think it will always be a constant reminder of the last 5 or so years. I’m ashamed to admit it, even to you, but I was lost to myself for a long time. I think it was the money – yes it’s easy to blame the money isn’t it? But I honestly think that it was part of the problem, the money, and the freedom. It became a bit too much, especially as young as I was. See, I’m still skating around the subject. Well, fact of the matter is, you could say I hit the bottle, and hard. I can hardly remember most of what I’ve done since 2014. I’m surprised the money didn’t run out, or that Joe didn’t cut me off sooner.

Yeah, that’s right, Joe cut me off. He did a big lawyer thing and a court thing and a whole load of other things, and for a time I hated him more than I needed to drink… but, ultimately, he saved me. He got me into rehab, he was there for me all the way – possibly even against the wishes of his wife. But, I’m better now, I think. Been sober for close to six months, not that I never crave it any more or anything – that would make it all a lot easier – but I don’t need it any more, and I control those cravings. I haven’t just been sober – I haven’t touched a drop. I don’t have it in the house, I explain my situation to any one who offers me some, and I avoid pubs like the plague.

Anyway, that’s the hard part done, you’re caught up on the last five years – two paragraphs, that’s all it took, that’s all I’ve achieved in the last half a decade? That’s depressing more than anything else.

The company’s still running – Joe did a good job, he’s a good man. He actually put away all ‘my half’ of the profits, as if he was still bound by that silly pact we made all those years ago. He didn’t have to do anything at all. After all the drink and all the court sessions, I think he’s in charge of it all, legally. But he gave me half, half of everything – stupid old stick that he is – and I love him for it.

The reason I’m writing now is that, obviously, it was my birthday just over a week ago, and Joe gave me a leather-bound book to keep a diary with. And that got me thinking about you. So here we are, old friend, caught up on what’s happened, and the two of us alone again, just like old times. Only now I’m 31 and it’s 2 days before Christmas. Oh, Joe invited me over, and when he started insisting, I told him I had other plans – something about… I can’t even remember. But he needs time with his family after everything he’s given me. Maybe I’ll get a little bit of turkey and some roast potatoes, that should do it.

Oh… and Kelly… I never did call her when I told you I would. I’m not even sure she’d recognise me. And I don’t even know where she is. Should I find her? I’m rich again, it would be easy.

Poignant thought for the day: It’s now almost harder for me to admit to people that I’m rich, than it is to admit about the drinking. I think I hate it, but what would I do if I didn’t have the money? What a sad thing to write, eh?

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Dare diay, 007/9

Shot, I hate my life!!!! How did eveythig get like this?? Maybe Ill kill myself?

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