Writer's Island Threshold

The prompt this week at Writer’s Island is: Threshold

Here’s my offering:

BEYOND THE THRESHOLD
The old man sits beside the fireplace on a three legged stool, reading a book. The fire in the grate is crackling away - it’s the only sound in the room; it must be the middle of the night… the wee small hours, before dawn. The old man sits motionless as if carved from alabaster. His hair and beard glow dully, the bright orange now faded with age but still catching the light from the flames so that it appears to be made up of living snakes, each coiling and writhing – red, gold, orange. He has a pair of round spectacles and is bent over a book which he holds close to his face as though it’s difficult for him to make out the words… even though he himself wrote the book many years ago and is only now reading it for the first time. The book seems to be covered in cloth – and as the light from the flames falls upon it, it comes alive, each shade of colour changing constantly. The old man keeps his fingers perfectly still upon the fabric, never hesitating for a moment… he wants this to become clear to him, to unfold the secrets within. Beyond the Threshold, the book’s called; as he turns each thin page very carefully the gently rustling sound of the paper plays upon the air, fading into the background.

I watch him from the doorway – at least I think it’s a doorway; it’s cold and dark out here and I wish I could go inside and sit beside the old man by the fire. I can feel the heat from the flames even now, but I can’t step over the threshold of the room, I just can’t, I dare not. For I’m afraid if I do the illusion will shatter, be destroyed absolutely… the fire will turn to ice, the pieces falling away to the ground, the shards glittering even though they have no life left within them. The old man will cease to read his book for there’s no light left to make out the words. So I have to stand still and watch… never moving a muscle, waiting beyond the threshold.

Writer's Island Sizzle

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Sizzle.

SIZZLE

As I walk across the main square in Tunis all I’m aware of is the thin leather sandals I’m wearing flapping against the souls of my feet with every step I take; the straps of the sandals have been broken for quite some time, but I haven’t had the money to get them mended. One of my sisters offered to mend them a few weeks ago but I refused her help in my usual way – a brief shake of the head and a low growl, “No thanks, forget it.” So the sandals remain to be an irritation to me… oh well, such is life.

I pause in the bright sunlight as I feel a tug at the white linen of my sleeve. I turn around to see my younger brother Saul, who’s been following me with the trailer. He knocks off a few of the carrots as he does so, I watch him pick them up quickly… I can feel the heat from the bubbling frustration inside me even now.

“Sorry Mohammed… Do you still want to sell these?” Saul says apologetically, brushing off the dirt from the carrots. “I don’t think it will matter – no one will notice anyway. Why don’t you stop here in the shade to sell them? You don’t want to be too obvious, not when there’s so many people around.”

I brush a fly away from my face as I move defiantly into the sunlight glancing at Saul dismissively.

“No, I’ll sell my things here… I want to attract attention, that’s the whole idea of selling. Here, give me the stuff… Thanks, see you later.”

Saul hands over the vegetables to me which I set down all around me, making them as obvious as I dare. I don’t know what it is about today but I feel so on edge, so irritable my general frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to break out and erupt like a volcano at any moment. Saul can’t sense this because he turns away and disappears thankfully amongst the crowds of people. I’m left alone which I’m glad about – I can’t share this anger with anyone but I can’t afford to move or even to breathe. I want to sell most of the vegetables before I’m stopped by a policeman. I suspected this, I knew this was coming.

“Haven’t you got anything to give us?” The policeman asks me, giving me a hefty shove backwards. “You’ve been selling stuff… you must have money?”

I stare at him furiously. “I’m not giving you anything – This is all a complete sham! Get lost. Get away from me.”

He gives me a sharp slap across my face, making the blood ring in my ears, I’m so angry. My anger is sizzling within me – fighting for release.

“Don’t you dare… You’d better keep away from me.” I struggle to my feet, beginning to back away. I continue to shout at him half blind by my own fury. “You won’t get away with treating me like shit – who the Hell do you think you are? I’m going to the Governor… So you’d better get ready for the sack!”

The policeman is still laughing, even as I scuttle away amongst the crowds in the main square. I take no notice, I know where I’m heading… the Governor’s office on the other side of the square. The Red Flag flies above it signifying the high point of my anger. I suddenly feel a droplet of saliva hit me on the cheek – the droplet lies against my skin in the warm air of the afternoon. That’s all that I’m aware of as I move forwards, not caring who I’m pushing aside. The high point that I won’t be able to reach before the eruption, the lava flowing down. I run up the front steps of the building, taking the stairs two or three at a time… my leather sandals are still flapping continually against the soles of my feet all of the time.

“I want to see the Governor of Tunis right away – I’ve got the most serious complaint!” I shout in a clear voice as soon as I approach the front desk. The man sitting there looks up at me with only a very slight interest, putting down his pen. He stares at me lazily and yawns.

“Can you tell me your name? If you want to make a complaint you can at least do it properly.”

“My name is Mohammed Ali, and I want to complain about the police insulting me just now in the main square. I want something done. This sort of thing has got to stop!”

The official gazes at me briefly before pulling a sheet of paper towards him and beginning to write. Every movement he makes is very slow, deliberately slow.

“The police insulting you… are you serious? How old are you Mohammed?”

I press my fist on the surface of his desk, trying to control my anger.

“I’m 26. So please don’t treat me like a child! I want to see the Governor.”

The official smiles and shakes his head very slowly.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Not for something as insignificant as this. The Governor is a busy man… he has a lot more important things to do with his time. I cannot allow you to bother him.” The red flag is flapping before my eyes, the blood bubbling to the surface.

“I demand to see the Governor right now! Or else I’ll…”

“Or else what? Go away and stop wasting my time!”

I turn away from the desk and walk across the entrance hall towards the wide open doors, every pace in slow motion, as if counting out the seconds, entering the sunlight again, I can feel it beating down upon my head I can feel the ends of my black hair sizzling by the heat and my anger. I descend the front steps very slowly as if moving through a bubbling liquid, like lava, or even blood. I’m moving towards the end of my anger… I feel around in my pocket until my fingers close around a lighter. Drawing it out very slowly, I stare at it for several moments as I reach the bottom. Moving into the spotlight of the white sun, I gaze around as the expectant faces turn towards me… waiting.

Writer's Island Superstition

The prompt at Writer’s Island this week is: Superstition

SUPERSTITION

Friday the thirteenth of May, three-thirty pm. “Twenty-five, twenty-six please…” I place the eggs carefully on the top of everything else so they don’t get broken!

I clear the counter for the next customer, who begins taking her stuff from the trolley and stacking it on the check-out. I try not to yawn; the woman I’m watching blearily looks almost as bored as I feel myself. She’s pretty old – I see there are quite a few wrinkles beneath her eyes, and her hair is steel grey. Her hair seems to be almost made of metal – not hair at all, but a thin steel sheet encasing her head. Like a sort of protective helmet I suppose… I shake my head to clear the vision. I think I definitely had too much to drink last night… I’m still seeing things even after a few hours sleep. I jab my crimson finger nails on the counter, taking care not to squash the packet of moon cakes which the woman has put there, beside the Chinese leaves, eggs, noodles, beans and other such things. My eye runs over the items fleetingly; I’m not really interested, this is just a part-time job, ringing up the sales, filling in time, extra money to pay my rent.

“Excuse me dear… does your supermarket take cards?”

I stare at her blankly for a moment – that voice doesn’t seem to belong to match her appearance at all.

“Of course we do,” I snap back, pushing her items along the counter impatiently. “This is the biggest Chinese supermarket in Los Cristianos, you know… of course we take cards.”

“Oh… alright, I’m sorry.” The woman watches me nervously, wringing her hands together, as I press the buttons on the cash register viciously to ring up the sale. The woman shakes her head from side to side, it could be a nervous twitch, I’m not sure, she gives a silly little laugh and she looks at me with her tired eyes, the wrinkles running down her face to meet the lines around her mouth. “I’m sorry – you must forgive me, I’ve not had much sleep I’m afraid. There’s been… some trouble, or rather, there will be. Though I’m not superstitious, still…”

I stare at her, feeling my crimson lipstick crawling over the scornful curve of my lips.

“What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, yet.” Once again, the woman gives a nervous laugh, opening her purse to get her card. The image suddenly stays with me… the shop girl and the customer paying, the grey hair on her head mixing suddenly with the crimson light of my lipstick… the executioner awaits. “But I’m sure… I feel unsafe. There’s a man being stalking me for the past few days… I don’t know what’s going on in his head… but I’m scared. So, you see – that’s why I can’t sleep.”

I stare at her, my crimson mouth hanging open. I don’t know what to say; I can see the old English tourist suddenly beside her open-air swimming pool with her husband, at the plastic table with perhaps a cocktail placed upon it. I see the image moving slightly behind my eyes… every second the stalker gets a little closer, the butcher’s knife in his hand gleaming.

Writer's Island Season

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is: Season

Here's my response:

SEASON
I pause to try and catch my breath; I can feel the droplets of sweat rolling down my back like a river, between my shoulder blades. The woollen garments I wear cling to my skin with a horrid sort of tenacity, and I can almost hear the sound they make as they rub against my skin. I glance up into the bright sunshine, it burns into the lenses of my eyes and I have to look away for a moment. The glare of the white snow all around reflects the rays of the sun and takes my sight away from me… but still I can hear the grunts and wheezes of the men around me as they push the sledge up the edge of the glacier. I’m only one of the team working so hard to reach the South Pole; we’ve come so far through the snow and ice, pushing the sledges, feeding the horses and then shooting them, feeding them to the dogs and always moving on with an unaccountable determination inspired by Captain Scott himself, moving on tirelessly towards our goal. And still the sun burns down without ceasing, mixing day and night so that they become one, and the seasons are confused. Like several of the other men, I peel off my outer layers of clothing so that I’m wearing just my long woollen underclothes and boots of course. I feel ridiculous even though there’s no one really to mind, as all the other members of the team have done exactly the same. Including the captain himself, I believe. We must be nearing the top of the glacier now, I’m sure… perhaps there on the plateau we can rest… it’s difficult to tell the time when the sun is up all day and all night, but it must be nearly lunchtime for my stomach is rumbling. I kick the snow from the side of the sledge to help it up the sharp incline, though I don’t know if it will do anything at all for the snow is as much a part of this natural scenery as anything, and has more right to stick to the sledge than I have. “Let us stop here for a while,” called out the captain from the front of the sledge. “We have reached the plateau now, and we deserve a special Christmas dinner… we’ll go over there, beside that incline.” The captains voice became louder as he walked towards me. “ Unpack the food we brought, John… have we got turkey?” I exchange a grin with him, my face breaking easily into such an expression on such a day as this. The sun continues to burn down, reflecting off the snow without ceasing. There seems to be no respite, no end to this day. This Christmas day, in 1912… a Christmas day which I will always remember, which will always be burnt - etched into my memory, engrained so that the textures can be felt by fingers unseen. I began to open one of the pouches of food and examine the contents. “Yes, captain… we have turkey here, and even roast potatoes… though they are somewhat cold I’m afraid.” Captain Scott roared with laughter, clapping me heartily on the back. “No matter John - no matter! This will be a Christmas we will never forget!” I smiled also, if a little feebly. The sun continued to burn down day and night, mixing the seasons into one… the snow transgressing upon the sunshine. The two tried to mix, but the solution didn’t work… they simply stayed side by side, without touching.

Self Prompted Poetry III

UNPROMPTED

There was nothing to do but sit and think,

Sit and think… so what’s wrong with that?

Inside the hut can smell the age of the stones

Telling the time as it passes slowly, the sun casting shadows

Which measure the hours as they crawl on the way towards the night,

The end of the day, a great vacuum, the plug hole

Down which we will all vanish.

I wonder if they know, if they can tell that I’ve been crying?

Everything around me moving, sounds spinning

I imagine it all, the whole thing made up

And simply for me alone, always alone

So far away nobody can ever touch me

So remote, I fear for my own sanity

And yet, without it - am I really so lost?

Is the breakdown unprompted, completely spontaneous?

Turning my face to the sun, I feel the soft breeze against my skin

And this is the reality.

DOLCE VITA
Often I lay awake in those long, empty early hours… and my mind drifts in a state of half waking, half sleeping. I wander through places where I once lived, past people who I once knew but now are dead… or perhaps just changed, moved on after all those years. There are no solid objects here. No rigid structures or geometrical designs, just marshmallow lands and everything is soft and cushioned… is that maybe where the expression the “soft life” comes from? I balance against the sides of my surroundings… there’s absolutely no room for Ziggy here, I can see, I can hear. I blink as the Light Fantastic touches the retinas of my eyes… although when I’m awake the darkness increases around me, closing in… here the light grows brighter and brighter, beckoning me onwards. Beckoning me onwards, enticing me. I’m not sure how many hours or just minutes have passed since I woke up - time has done absolutely no damage here in this space between. I keep my eyes firmly shut, not wishing to disturb the slumbering state which has taken me so long to catch hold of, and is even now slipping, slippery as a fish between my fingers. Falling down, falling down to the ground and through that, beyond, down into the abyss. Still bouncing against the sides, the soft cushion, rebounding all around me as I fall… and I’m not frightened, I have no fear. The light creeping around the edges of the curtains seems far brighter than the grey day it heralds in reality… in this state, this magical state the light has no bounds… only soft cushions, soft promises, a truly soft life.

Self Prompted Poetry II

UNSEEN FACES

I’m living in the past

On vanished memories, faces now turned old and wrinkled

Changed not fixed like a photograph

-though that’s all I remember, the image fixed

In my memory, unchanging and clinging on desperately

Struggling, kicking, refusing to go down the plughole

And vanish, forgotten completely.

Distant voices echoing, I hear them still

But the image, the vision is gone

People might loose hair and teeth around me

But still, they’re there.

I still hold Jack in my arms

A tiny, shrivelled baby when I saw him last

In years long past by - gone now

Vanished, dropped into the abyss

Down the plug hole.

Self Prompted Poetry

Apparently it’s national poetry writing month, so Rob’s too busy writing poetry to bother with Writer’s Island prompts… however I’ve decided to do my own prompt, so here it is.

POETRY CONFUSED

I see him in the garden

Wandering around, eyes fixed on the sky

Translucent words spilling from his mouth, washing over the edges

To form a layer of mud which hardens in the sunshine

Like an extra eggshell, a coating of brittle pieces

A poem confused?

He still shakes his head and yawns, his open mouth cavernous

The garden twinkles around him, perhaps starry skies meeting the grass

I don’t know, I can’t tell - who am I?

I’m no one, I don’t matter

I’m just a poet confused.

Writer's Island Unlimited

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Unlimited.

UNLIMITED

“Take my hand. Look up into the night sky… it’s all open to you now, so take it. Take it.”

The warm wind breathes gently over the lashes of my eyes as I open them. The garden walls fall away as we stand side by side and stare into the night sky… the stars are dotted all over, and their canopy is completely unlimited. I grip onto your hand as if I’m falling, spinning round and round with the stars whizzing around me on either side. I can feel them whirring past me like a clockwork star, clockwork stars without the limited feel of mechanical motion.

It’s frightening, this total abandon of reality… of course it’s frightening, but it’s also exhilarating in the extreme. This night sky has completely opened up to engulf me, the hard edges of the stars glittering like many coloured gems falling away on either side, and me? I, meanwhile, have no dimension, no limits. Nothing to hold me in, to stop me to tell me no, you can’t do that, you can’t go there… it’s not allowed, there are limits after all. These sounds are dead and gone, there are no limits here… for I’ve gone past the barriers. I have gone inside my mind, and am travelling fast beyond limits.

Writer's Island Tribute

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Tribute.

TRIBUTE

A Sunday night tribute made to Pink Floyd

An Arena full of a complete mixture of people

Aging hippies amongst them, I’m sure.

Shine on you crazy diamond glitters amongst

the debris of Manchester-grey as always

A room full of dogs barking and whining,

Their plaintiff howls echoing round and round

The electric guitar holding me spellbound in the tribute

Wish you were here plucked out on the Spanish guitar stings

And the woman cries create such beauty

That I find difficult to believe in.

The tribute goes on…

Writer's Island Secret

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Secret.

SECRET

As a child, I was drawn as if by an invisible thread down to the cellar which was a place of secrets. Cold stone walls with damp dripping down, dim light and silence, just a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling… cobwebs of course, and the smell of mushrooms musty with age and decay. My skinny arms struggled to lift the button cover I found high up on of the walls, for I knew with my child’s perception that the cover must hide a secret. I laid the cover down on the floor, and stared into the dark space behind it… what was inside the space? I had to find out - there was no two ways about it. Searching round the cellar I found a small ladder, which I used to climb up and enter into the Black Hole… I wasn’t frightened, just intrigued to know what secrets the space held.

There was no room to stand or even sit up - I was forced to wriggle on my belly into the darkness… there was a brick roof immediately above my head and as I stretched my fingers, I could feel more bricks separating the space into different areas. It was all very strange… especially because I couldn’t see a thing… only feel the bricks and the soft cobwebby substance which covered the bottom of this space along which I wriggled… my greatest fear was that my groping fingers would make contact with a dead rat or some other horrible corpse, perhaps even human. As I wriggled further and further away from the opening, deeper into the foundations of the house I became a little anxious that I would be unable to breathe in such an atmosphere of decay and secrets, for the cobwebby substance began to fill my lungs. This place, this dark space of secrets … I began to panic, though at the same time I just wanted to go on, to go further and stay down there forever, to stay far away from the old mundane life at school. I wanted to stay down there where there was always a secret to be found… I didn’t want to return. Yet at the same time I knew that I had to, I had to turn round if I wanted to stay alive and breathe.

So eventually I retraced my wriggling movements back to the dark opening back into the cellar. It was impossible to tell exactly how long I had been inside the foundations, for time had ceased to have any real meaning since I’d entered the Black Hole. As I climbed carefully down the ladder and stood there, brushing the cobwebby substance from my T-shirt and jeans I knew that the secret in the cellar would have to remain. With my skinny arms I lifted the wooden cover reluctantly and replaced it over the entrance to the foundations. I turned away, leaving the secret safely stored away from prying eyes.

Writer's Island Foretell

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Foretell.

FORETELL

I can still feel the light behind me fading slowly, casting my shadow across the dining room table. I watched my mum move busily back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, clearing away the dishes… I watched her with a lazy pair of eyes that had seen it all before, many times. Seen it all before, still watching and waiting. All that was twenty five years ago, though I remember it all so clearly. I think I may possible have cleared my plate before I spoke, but it’s only a possibility.

“You know,” I remarked, “I’d be totally lost without my sight.”

Ziggy’s arm creaked slightly as I lent upon it, shifting my weight to get into a more comfortable position. My wheelchair is my friend now - Ziggy it’s called. I still watched my mum even though she had started to move back and forth between the rooms, her attention caught by my words. She dried her hands very slowly and carefully on the tea towel, taking a few tiny steps across the carpet towards me until she was standing right by me, almost leaning against Ziggy.

“Yes,” she agreed, “I think you would be.”

That was it, the sum total of our intimate conversation. But I’ve been thinking of it now, and it feels quite distant even though I remember it all so distinctly. I saw the light fading slowly, and I see it still, the light fading slowly away from me. It won’t ever be diminished completely. I don’t feel frightened any more, for all that has changed… the “I” has become dissipated, fragmented into multiple beings, some living, some dead. They are all me, different facets of me. I have become contained within each self, each being… and every one of them can both see and be seen.

And behind me the light still fades slowly, ever more slowly from the sky… and yet the darkness will never descend and smother me completely.

Writer's Island Epiphany

The prompt this week at Writer's Island is Epiphany.

EPIPHANY

The entire corridor fell suddenly silent as George’s final question hung in the air. Elvira and Bart exchanged nervous glances, edging slightly closer to each other, wondering what exactly was moving towards them.

”What’s going on ?” demanded George in her most aggressive tone of voice, “What’s that?” she pointed over Elvira’s left shoulder to a strange circle of light which moved with an unnerving grace towards them, closer and closer. It seemed to be almost like a candle, but then it had no substance to it whether it be wax or something else, no substance at all only light. The group of figures became suddenly aware of the presence of Alice, the little illustrated figure with her black and white edges curling as they slightly moved, edging into the limelight, falling to her knees- centre stage all the time. Elvira watched her uneasily.

“What’s going on, Alice? What’s wrong?” She asked quietly, trying to take Alice’s paper thin hand. But the little girl pushed her away.

“Leave me alone!” she cried out in a shrill shaky voice. “This is my moment! You may have thought I was only a Victorian illustration, dead and gone - but that’s where your wrong. I’m still alive, and I’ve seen the light. Here it is, it’s moving towards me - this is my moment, my moment of awakening. Everything else is nothing, it’s all nothing… it doesn’t matter. You all don’t matter… I don’t matter either, in fact nothing matters. We’re all just figures from books.”

For a while nobody said anything - for what could be said in reply to such a statement of truth? Then George took a step towards Alice’s papery edges, reaching out and tentatively feeling them. For a moment Elvira wondered if she would rip them deliberately and she got her wand ready to raise if necessary, but Gorge pulled her hands quickly away from Alice as if the feel of the old paper stung her.

“Well whoever you are, I don’t know what you’re talking about… but it all sounds pretty religious to me… and I certainly don’t go along with all that great spiritual awakening stuff. It ‘s all rubbish and went out with the Victorians - which is maybe where you belong. I don’t know who you are… I’ve never read your book and I must say I’m glad.” Alice wavered slightly as though wondering whether to turn the page. Her voice rose in the air once again, even shriller as though touched with panic.

“How can you speak to me like that? You must have read Alice in Wonderland surely… how can you possible diminish my spiritual awakening, even if it wasn’t made explicit in the book? This is it, it’s happening now.”

The tall man standing behind George suddenly laid his hand on his daughters shoulders and cleared his throat loudly.

“You’ll forgive me for interrupting your little scene… but George, don’t you remember me giving you Alice in Wonderland when you were younger? Surely you remember that?”

George stared at Alice’s illustrated form aggressively.

“Well, maybe… but I don’t remember the story at all, so it can’t have made much impression on me,” she muttered. The strange circle of light still hovered a few feet above their heads, glowing with such an unnatural brightness that its reality seemed very doubtful to all of them. George continued stabbing her forefinger towards Alice, each movement punctuated her words. “All the Victorians were religious - and that’s obviously where you belong back with them, you should never have left them… what are you doing here anyway? We’ve come on quite a long way since those days of great spiritual awakenings… all that crap, all that rubbish - there’s absolutely nothing to awaken to, no truth, no nothing. I’m a real modern boy, don’t you know?”

Behind her Uncle Quentin took his hands away from her shoulders with a marked air of significance.

“Do you mind Georgina? May I remind you that you are not in fact a boy, you… you’re my daughter? Whether you’re religious or not, it doesn’t make any difference.”

Writer's Island Beguile

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Beguile.

BEGUILE

The bright sun hangs overhead

And filters though a haze of heat

Seeming to waver as touches fleetingly

Dazzling upon the surface of the white alabaster statues of young men

Which surround the swimming pool of the villa

The villa where she lives, the villa where she lies.

She lies now beside the pool

Stretched out upon her towel

Her skin glowing strangely white

Against the deep colour of the towel

The ebony lines of her hair are sharp contrast

Echoed in the edge of her sunglasses

Waiting for the approach of the stranger

Waiting to remove the glasses

And fix him with her medusa stare.

Writer's Island Clarity

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Clarity

CLARITY

Clarity was an angel - I realised that the moment I first saw her walking past me through the park, her bare feet rustling gently against the fallen leaves covering the ground. A strange light came from her, enclosing her within it almost like a shroud, a shroud of radiance. She sat down next to me on the bench, carefully draping her beautiful wings over the back so that their feathery softness would not be disturbed by the reality of the cold autumn evening. Even though it was evening - twilight actually to be precise - the silver light shone from all around her… I worked out eventually that it came from her hair, which was silver like tinsel, this amazing silver stuff streaming down her back until it became lost beneath her wings. I must admit to being rather gobsmacked - she took my breath away, and for several moments all I could do was stare stupidly. She didn’t seem to be aware at all about any difference about her; shaking back long strands of silver hair from her face, she smiled only very gently in an abstract manner, as if preoccupied with some other business. I swallowed nervously and cleared my throat. I was aware that anything I said now would sound just plain stupid… but still I had to say something.

“ I - I haven’t seen you round here before, if your forgive me for saying so,” I stammer, aware suddenly of the icy sting of autumn air against my lips as I spoke. I turned up the collar of my Lumber jacket, feeling the deep softness of it against my bare throat… I had shaved off my beard some weeks ago for some reason which I had no knowledge of. It seemed an incredible thing to do at this time of year, when a man needs every strand of hair to protect himself. I glanced quickly at Clarity’s thin, shimmering sort of gown and bare feet - which were blue with cold, hardly surprisingly. “Your feet must be absolutely freezing.” Clarity glanced down at them, seeming surprised by their colour.

“Well, I suppose they are… it’s a bit colder down here. Heaven’s such a warm place, you know - that’s one of the best things about it.”

I could almost hear the leaves fluttering down to the ground all around me, though I was unable still to take my eyes from the angel herself.

“Well why did you come down in the first place? Why not stay with the heavenly ghosts?”

Clarity laughed very softly, the sound becoming visible as vapour in the cold air.

“Oh, I had to… I was sent down here. I had no choice in the matter - when the Almighty speaks, we have to obey.” She shrugged indifferently, her wings raising and falling with her shoulders. “That’s the way it is up there, so that’s why I’ve come down. I don’t know why though there must be some reason I suppose.”

I shook my head wonderingly, basking in the gentle radiance from her hair… from her whole self in fact, her angelic self that is.

“I’d like to see Heaven for myself… I’ve always thought it sounds pretty boring though. Is it?”

Once again, the shrug - the wings moving with it, the feathers also.

“I suppose it is really… not much goes on there. But it’s the only place I’ve known, so…” she broke off suddenly, shaking her head as if to clear it. I became aware of a buzzing, a vibration in the air. I frowned; I felt uneasy, searching for some sort of explanation, some insight into Heaven and how angels work, some sort of clarity. Her eyes became unfocused a frown creasing her delicate brow. “Wait a minute… I’m just getting a message… this might be the reason we’ve been looking for. Some sort of light is being thrown on the subject of my actions, I hope.”

I stared at her, feeling the light intensify around her along with the vibrations so that the two were linked, they went hand in hand, side by side. Clarity stood up abruptly, her bare feet shuffling against the fallen leaves on the ground. She held out her hand to me, and all I could see was the light surrounding it.

“I’m afraid I have to go… that is, back there. I’ve just been told - and I can’t argue with that one. But you’re coming with me, you know… I’ve been told to bring you. So come on, get to your feet and let’s be off… oh, by the way I ought to introduce myself properly to you - the name’s Clarity. Clarity by name… clarity by nature.”

Her light was becoming more and more intense as every second passed… I seized her hand, I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to see heaven for myself. As I got to my feet also, I saw the golden staircase taking shape against the gloom of twilight… I followed Clarity towards it, trying not to trip over my own clumsy feet in haste. I walked side by side with the angel, her silver hair still streaming down her back until it was lost in the feathers of her wings. The lights around her hair became so bright and intense I became anxious… and yet at the same time so excited.

“I suppose this is what they call seeing the light,” I cried out breathlessly.

Beside me I felt Clarity smile by the movement of the air.

“Yes, I suppose it is… you coming? You coming then?”

We began to climb the stairs, moving both our feet in perfect unison.

Writer's Island Courage II

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Courage.

FICTIONAL LIONS

As he wandered along the Yellow Brick falling to the ground at every other step, the scarecrow saw a magnificent lion advancing slowly towards him without making a sound. The scarecrow felt a little uneasy at this silence, for he expected such a splendid creature to make some sort of roar or something… but this silence was quite un-nerving. The scarecrow picked himself up when he came face to face with the lion and asked him some what timidly…

“Don’t I recognise you? Aren’t you searching for a heart - for courage?” The lion smiled very vaguely, shaking his beautiful golden hairdo from side to side so that his mane glinted gently in the sunshine. When he answered, the words came vibrating from his throat, in a great rumbling vibration of energy.

“I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with someone else… some other lion, perhaps a more courageous one than me. For I’m a quite different creature… a suffering lion, a sacrificial lion with religious undertones - need I say more?” The lion stared directly into the scarecrows painted eyes, raising his fierce eyebrows very slightly. “Surely you’ve read the book I come from… you’re into children’s fiction aren’t you?”

The scarecrow shook his cloth head firmly, although he didn’t feel at all firm.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you. I understand nothing about religious undertones, for I’ve got no brain have I??”

“No… sorry, I forgot.” Gently the lion raised a great paw and patted the scarecrow apologetically on the arm. He almost crushed the scarecrow’s fabric body as he did so with his almighty strength. “But you must have heard of my story somewhere… for I step out of fiction into religion… a sort of mixture of fictional characters against a real background. I’m talking about the bible - Christianity, call it what you will. And I’ve wandered out of that into children’s fiction… there I become Aslan, the most courageous and tragic lion you’ve ever heard of. You must have heard of me.”

Still the scarecrow stared blankly at the great lion and continued to shake his stupid cloth head. It seemed to both of them there was nothing more to be said.

Writer's Island Courage

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Courage.

DESTINY

I sat on a coil of rope just at the edge of the water, watching the Torpoint ferry make contact with land; all around me the bright lights lingered and flashed intermittently, red, yellow, gold. The night yawned and stretched, enjoying the solitude. Everything seemed to be completely still and silent… at least, almost silent - for the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the harbour walls became a musical background to my thoughts.

At first I thought the bright white figure moving towards me was another light from the ferry, then I realised the figure wasn’t walking across the water after all, even though it became obvious to me pretty quickly that the form wasn’t a human but an angel, with massive great wings trailing behind him. I watched with some interest as the angel moved noiselessly towards me… only his wings made a slight dragging sound, as the feathers trailed along the ground behind him. My eyes hurt to stare at him, he was so bright. I’m afraid I can’t remember if he had a halo or not… such details don’t matter, do they? I got to my feet very slowly as the angel approached - I thought I should show him some form of respect or simply civility. Although the angel’s face showed no expression, it seemed to be set with a gentle smile, almost sculptured in marble, shining marble. He held out his hand towards me, and I took the map from him wordlessly… don’t ask me why I wasn’t surprised, I just wasn’t . I unfolded the parchment carefully, and stared at the markings upon it. When I raised my eyes back to the angel’s shining face, I felt confused.

“I - I’m sorry… I don’t understand,” I said, feeling truly stupid. “What is this?”

The angel gazed at me patiently folding his arms. He may even have sighed - I wouldn’t like to say.

“It’s a map of course - it shows your destiny. You gonna follow it or what?”

I noticed immediately the angels cockney accent… which seemed completely in keeping with the strangeness of the night even though Torpoint was nowhere near London. Still, I felt I had to speak to the angel.

“I didn’t know - I didn’t know angels could have cockney accents,” I said, taking the hand he offered, for I felt I could do with something steady to hold on to. “I thought angels were meant to be ethereal, above such things.”

The angel’s smile widened slightly as he raise his hand and pointed upwards, ahead of him into the black night sky. Perhaps a star twinkled there, perhaps not.

“We’ve got to go up… when you’re ready - are you ready?” I could hear the waves lapping against the harbour walls… and the sounds spun away , entangling themselves with the stars, the images of destiny. The angel coughed and tutted impatiently. “We should get going right away, then… we have got to go up very high… right up amongst the stars. You ready?”

I felt his hand pull on my own, drawing me towards the light. I swallowed down my nerves.

“Ok, I’m ready… lead the way,” I said with perfect confidence.

Writer's Island Embark

Written for the Writer's Island prompt: Embark

EMBARKING

I’m clinging for dear life onto the edge of one of the sails, high up above everyone else, all the rest of the crew who scurry about like beetles over the main deck of the Discovery. If I dare to shift my position I’m just able to make out the Captain himself, strolling leisurely amidst the general hubbub of activity that takes place around him. As I watch, he takes out a large white handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose loudly – I can hear the sound clearly from right up here on the ship’s highest yard. I smiled to myself; I have a great affection for the captain, although I hardly know him really, for I’m only a nameless one of the ship’s crew, no one special. I’m one of tens of workers, pulling the ropes, setting the sails, getting the ship already to embark on this voyage – this voyage of discovery.

I crawl slowly along the yardarm, inching towards the centre mast, the steady centre. It seems to take a long time for me to reach the place where I can feel relatively at ease, where my heart can perhaps beat a little easier and my breathing become slightly less frantic. I’m still high up on the mast, with the sails flapping below me and there are even a few gulls screeching around my head – though this may be merely my imagination, for after all, we’re not yet at sea, this is only the Thames. Reaching the mast finally, I sheen my way down carefully, feeling the ropes, rough and abrasive, against my skin… for my skin is a soft female one, though I almost forget this, so caught up have I become in the part I am playing, in my disguise.

My rough fabric shoes make absolutely no sound as they make contact with the wooden deck, and the rest of my body follows noiselessly, but even so the captain turns his head to see who has moved the air around him, disturbed the stillness. I get to my feet slowly, very aware, as always, of the absence of my skirts rustling and dragging around my legs, dragging me down. My legs cry out with freedom, the freedom of the thin cotton breeches… I stare back at the captain as he meets my eyes directly, challenging. I’m sure for a moment that he recognises me, but of course he says nothing. It’s not so easy for me to keep my face raised and my eyes confronting his shamelessly, without blushing or turning away, as I have been told to do all my life, all these past twenty years. I’m trying so hard to meet the gentle eyes of Captain Cook… remembering that last time we lay together, quite some months past, perhaps it’s even years, I’m not quite sure. I want to raise my hand to touch the captain’s face, to let him know that I have come on board The Discovery beside him… for I could not possibly allow him to embark alone on this voyage.

My Newsletter Raw Meat is now Online! Issue 124 January 2011

Writer's Island Triumph

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Triumph.

TRIUMPH DISSOLVED

“Just look at me sitting here - I’m not a pretty sight, not that I ever was in fact. People used to tell me to stand up… and then realised I was already doing so. Standing next to the beautiful Josephine, I could barely reach her shoulder - oh yes, she was a tall one but even so… little wonder then, that I much preferred being on horseback where I could safely tower above the common mortals. And of course I looked down on them… I always looked down on my people. Though that’s not to say I didn’t care about them… of course I did, The People were everything to me, I put my life at stake because of them. Though that seems far behind now, all disappearing fast as if it’s all being shut up inside a telescope. My glory days have all receded from me, so far away… all diminishing, those famous people I used to have conversations with - Robespierre, Barras, Jacque-Louis David… all diminished to tiny figures trapped inside the telescope, which has been left behind somewhere on a desktop in Paris.

I’ve got the old stomach pains once again - they plague me from time to time, reminding me of my own mortality. Now-a-days it’s an effort for me to get up and cross over the road to get a loaf of bread from the only bakers that exists on this bleak island in the middle of nowhere. The sharp wind slices constantly across my face, once again reminding me of my own mortality. These days that’s the only thing I can be sure of… my own mortality. Those glory days of triumph blinked back at me from an oh-so-distant-spot that is becoming more hazy as every second ticks by. I take out my pocket watch and glance at it impatiently… the gold around the edges is becoming tarnished now, but it’s the only reminder left to me that I once was a force to be reckoned with.

I think I’ll die on this island… I think I’ll curl up and greet my death with passivity, clapping it in the shoulder like an old friend. Death holds no fear for me any more - in fact I think I welcome it’s approach. I lift my face into the wind and watch the skeleton approach slowly across the wild and bleak beach. The icy sea is choppy, and the waves slop constantly against the sides of my mind… the vision of my glory days won’t leave me, won’t leave me at all. I can sit down here on the edge of the beach amongst the seaweed and watch the icy waves receding from me, diminishing into some remote spot I once occupied. My days of triumph are far behind me now, and getting smaller all the time. The Paris I designed and help build… the Champs-Elysées stretching out for a whole mile, strait as a ruler - and the ruler I was, so that I was able to see the approach of an enemy. And the Arc de Triomphe arching over me as I sat on my horse below. My glory days, I held all the triumph in my hand… I held everything at my feet - where is it now?

I stare at a distant spot on the icy grey waves as they turn over and over, battering against the sides of my mind. Absorbing the memories, completely absorbing them so there’s nothing left now, nothing at all. After my death what will be left of me? Will they take my tiny skeleton back to Paris I wonder, or will I simply rot here, on Saint Helena. There’s no way of telling… I don’t suppose that it matters now, for my days of triumph are over.”

Writer's Island Wondrous

The prompt at Writer's Island is: Wondrous

WONDROUS

Lying stretched out to full extent on my bed, I’m staring at the steel toes of my boots and listening to the howling winds buffering the sides of the tent as though trying desperately to get inside and freeze us all solid in a mass. Beside me lies the captain, breathing slowly and laboriously. To him every breath is an effort, a measure of time passing, minutes ticking away. On my other side is the still form of Doctor Wilson, already dead. At least that’s what I imagine – I can’t actually see him, as my neck won’t allow me to turn my head far enough… or maybe some part of the heavy clothing I’m wearing prevents me. Or maybe the doctor has not been there at all, maybe we left him somewhere outside, wondering across the icy wastes, searching for a way back through the blizzard, battling against the horrors of frostbite, always searching for a way back… though it is too late now for the winter darkness is already upon us and there is no hope now. We lost, all three of us, we reached the south pole some months ago but found it was useless, we were too late. And so what was there left to do but to come back? But even then, we knew there was no point… we were already lost, even as we set out to return.

I turn my face very slightly to the left, framed by the furred edges of my hood I can just make out the form of Captain Scott, his face ashen white against the brown canvas sides of the tent behind him. his face seems frozen and stiff, even though he’s still living – or at least, I think he is. Upon his face I can see the traces of the wondrous sights we have seen, the light fantastic. Such sights can never be forgotten, they leave their mark upon his pale skin… which twitches a little to string together a few words.

“Bowers… is Wilson… dead?”

Several long moments pass before I can muster up before I can force myself to speak, for my own lips are so dry now.

“I… think so.”

I think I’ve said those words, but I may be wrong… maybe I said nothing at all. The captain doesn’t seem aware anyway, his smile is fixed in place, to no one in particular. When he speaks once again, his words float across the frozen spaces between us, as if suspended there by the cold.

“I have seen… such wondrous sights that will never leave me…”

He’s silent then. I lie there and listen to the wind… I’ve never felt so frightened, so completely alone. I will be the last man to die.

Writer's Island Quest

The prompt at Writer’s Island this week is : Quest

QUEST

George looked carefully at Bart and Elvira, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Wait a moment… Did you say you were wizards?”

The magic duo exchanged glances, then Bartholomew shook his head.

“I don’t believe we said any such thing – where did you get that idea from?”

George shrugged, reaching into the top pocket of her shirt and drawing out a piece of yellow parchment.

“I don’t know… it just seems to fit in with the story, that there should be some wizards or magic around. Anyway, maybe you’d care to have a look at this… something I found beneath Kirren Castle during the last adventure of the Famous Five, I don’t know if you’ve read that one.” George pushed the parchment into Elvira’s hands, and proudly traced the outline of the island on it with her finger. “There must be some buried treasure or something like that. This is an adventure for certain, another juicy quest for the Famous Five. I’m not quite sure about the title of this quest yet, for it hasn’t been written at this point… but I’m sure it will be. Perhaps when we’re old and grey maybe even pushing up daisies.”

A dark shadow was cast over the parchment as the tall, bespectacled figure of Uncle Quentin stood up and snatched the map away.

“I’ll put a stop to this little mystery before it even reaches the publishers hands… give that to me, Georgina. Thank you very much.” Slowly he folded up the parchment and placed it in his inside pocket with great care and deliberation. All the time his face was set, the mouth harsh and unsmiling. He switched his tiny blue eyes over to Elvira and Bartholomew. “Now then, would you care for a cup of tea? I’m sure that could be arranged without the story even being written yet.”