Stories and Poems

STORIES AND POEMS

The Woman with No Name

by Lanie Shanzyra Rebancos

As The Thunder Rolls

By: Lanie Shanzyra Rebancos

by: Nicolas Sondergaard

Sunlight and Shadows

Interview with a Sinner

Hoarfrost

by: Carol E. Burris

by: Craig Maclachlan

Essays and Articles

(A collection of the artwork

I Always Did What Was Expected

Hurtful Labels/Helpful Labels

BY: Rebekah Hatfield

The Woman With No Name

With pity we stare

Into empty eyes

Of the woman with no name,

The one who walks

The streets alone

So close was she to fame.

No one does see

The dream she held

Back in her days of youth,

When all was good

And he was near,

When she took his word as truth.

Yet, turn did he

away from her

Leaving her scared and torn.

And in her mind,

In that dark place,

Horrid thoughts were quickly born.

Her mind became

A darkened hole

A place of fierce unrest.

Her heart grew cold

Like that blustery morn

‘Till it shattered in her chest.

She wandered out

In the streets

Of that great noted city,

And to this day

She sees not

Many eyes that stare with pity.

All she sees

Are dreams gone stray,

Dreams scattered in the wind.

And when her heart

Cries out in pain

She remembers how he grinned.

Then she sees herself

upon the stage,

Still young and full of beauty.

And as she dances

In the street

She performs a heavenly duty.

So, do heed the words

Of this old woman

As she dances in the street

God sends His message

In many forms

In strange people that we meet.

In a blink of an eye

In a life gone wrong

You could quickly be like she

A homeless one

Living in the street

Holding your hand out as a plea

So take that hand

And place in it

A dime or maybe two

To help her out

In the street

When she walks right up to you.

And pity not

Those empty eyes

Of the woman with no name

But see instead

The truth she gives

Till His angel He does reclaim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright © 2004 EMMA ROSE NERO. All rights reserved.
Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of U.S.and International copyright law.

Sunshine and Shadows

====================

The low sun sparkled off the lake. The trees to the left still hung heavy with the morning frost that had stayed for the day, glittering like the remains of December’s tinsel. In the distance, a white church spire added to the impression that a leftover Christmas card had magically come to life in this unlikeliest part of North London. All it needed was a choir of angels. A new life and a choir of angels.

As Marie-Christine put Luke back down, Luke noticed that his hands had left their shape in the ice on the stone wall, just like the shapes he had made drawing around his hands at playgroup yesterday. He liked to come this way, though it was a pity that in the road behind him there was a line of burnt-out abandoned cars. Mummy and daddy wouldn’t bring him this way; perhaps they only saw the cars and not the lake. They usually took a taxi anyway. Marie-Christine didn’t seem to mind, though. Marie-Christine had come to stay with them just after Luke’s fourth birthday, and came from France. Before Marie-Christine had been Anna, from Sweden, and before that Luke couldn’t remember.

Ten minute’s walk took Marie-Christine and Luke away from lakes and burnt-out cars to streets of huge off-road vehicles and wine-bars, and back to Luke’s home. Marie-Christine helped Luke out of his heavy coat and boots; Luke pulled off his woollen hat for himself, and his ears tingled with the warmth. He dropped it on the floor of the hallway.

“Now, that’s not where your hat belongs, is it”, said his mummy, gently, as she came out of the sitting-room. “No”, said Luke, and hung it on the low coat-peg in the porch. He noticed that mummy’s eyes were red again with crying, and Marie-Christine must have noticed it too, because she asked “Did the hospital call, then?”. “Yes,” said mummy. “They say the shadow is getting larger”.

Luke didn’t understand why the grown-ups were so upset that he had a shadow. He remembered that Peter Pan had chased his and got Wendy to sew it back on, so surely people /should/ have shadows. And shadows were nice things. He remembered how pretty the shadows of the leaves were when he walked through Clissold Park on a sunny autumn day. And he remembered last summer, playing on the Plage du Veillat, how the sun had hurt when he played on the sand for too long, and how glad he had been to get back into the shadow of the big umbrella that mummy kept saying he should call a parasol.

The headaches had been quite bad on that holiday, but mummy and daddy had just thought it was too much sun. But they kept getting worse after the family got home, so mummy and daddy had taken him to the doctor. The doctor sent him to a hospital, where he had had to lie still in a big machine, and soon after that the grown-ups had started talking about the shadow on his brain. They gave him medicine that made his tummy poorly, which he didn’t understand - why would making his tummy poorly help a headache?

The nice thing was that at about that time his daddy had started coming home from work earlier, and mummy had stopped going to so many clubs and classes in the evening. Luke wondered if his special shadow had something to do with it. Maybe they all wanted to see it. He had spent ages in front of the bathroom mirror looking for it, until his daddy had shouted for him to come out. All the shadows he could see looked the same as the ones everyone else had. But it was nice to see so much of mummy and daddy. Marie-Christine was nice, but when she put him to bed she didn’t give him a nice kiss like mummy did, and she couldn’t do big strong hugs like daddy could. Daddy hugged him a lot nowadays, and so did mummy. They seemed to hug each other a lot now, as well, which Luke didn’t remember them doing before he had his shadow. It /must/ be a nice thing, this shadow, if it lets him spend more time with mummy and daddy. It /must/ be a nice thing if it makes lots of hugs. It was such a pity about the headaches.

PAINTED WOMAN

Every night I saw her there.

Leather miniskirt,

tank tops and bangles,

large earrings and long, red wig.

She'd walked like a model

on a catwalk, and beamed

her sweetest smile, posed.

She joked, pointing

her red fingernail at every

man who'd passed by.

You could smell her,

the strong perfume,

when she passed you on her rounds.

Most people beliittled her,

insulted her to her very soul.

They didn't understand

why she was doing those

things, different things.

They judged her with

her blood-red lips and

high-heeled boots.

If only they could see

her in the morning light.

Her hair pulled back in a

ponytail, plain shirt and pants,

drinking black coffee, alone,

in the almost deserted cafe.

Her hazelnut-brown eyes

filled with tears,

her shoulders slumped by the weight,

hands trembling, body and

soul rueful, depressed, oppressed.

Maybe, yes, maybe if

they only knew the real her

perhaps they'd understand.

But in my heart I know,

it'll take a long time

for them to catch on.

'permission to post'

~As the Thunder Rolls~

As the thunder rolls down the mountains

It wakes everything in its path

She echoes her fierceness into the wind

For all to hear and envy

She clutches her aggressiveness

Unleashes it in tidal waves of fury

Until every bone in the body

Quivers in fear.

And the flesh is soaked clean to bone

Sensing nothing but the cold enveloping

And the cold breeze chilling internal blood

Finally after what seems like forever

Actually twenty minutes or so

The darkness rolls away

Allowing the sun's rays to give warmth

To a fresher Earth

and to thaw the bodies

Of those

Frozen by rain.

www.jennswritings.com

This Friend of Mine

Down the road she strolled with me

It mattered not the end to be

This fair girl, this friend of mine

You know the one, the one so kind.

Her warm smile, her girlish blush

Her heart's worth more than gold.

Whispers flew on their own wings

As my secrets to her were told

Two by two we walked the path

In grooves long worn and old

Side by side like sisters went

Battling seasons warm and cold

She moved from me, down her own path

One so different than my own

Her footsteps light on her new dance

To a song with brand new tone

I watch as slow her shadow fades

From the path that we long strolled

I know deep down, way in my soul

A lasting friendship we did mold

And when I feel my loss for her

The loss of her close by my side

My soul emits a mournful sigh

Yet rejoices in her great stride

For as she moves along her way

In my mind my friend will stay

Memory serves, warmth will shine

Of this fair girl, this friend of mine

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ALONE IN THE CROWD

As I entered yesterday

Indeed a new place

I was hoping I could find

Some friendly face.

The people around me

Looked kind enough

Maybe there is someone

Who'd like my stuff.

But as the days passed

Things began to clear out

Truth I'd found out

There was no doubt.

Different likes and dislikes

New things for me

I couldn't fit in

Well that's reality.

Maybe next time I'd tried harder

Then I'll get used to it

Cause they won't let me

Said I'm out of beat.

I feel cold and empty

Can't wait to get home

Maybe tomorrow'll be different

Maybe I won't be alone.

In the Dark

In the dark is somewhere warm

Distant from the roaring storm

Where light has no sting of pain

Where no sounding of the rain

It is quiet here no doubt

There's no crying nor a shout

I can't lose or gain the time

Here inside this world of mine

In the dark there is a place

No one knows its phantom face

But it has a special part

That it plays deep in the dark.

**********************************************************

Who I Am

The winter's touch is bitter cold

Here within my shadow

I see others stand tall and bold

And fight their own battle

Afraid to let the sun come through

And shine upon my face

Afraid to let them see what's true

Within my lonely place

I'll never learn to understand

I hide behind the scenes

Watching all t hose who fall and stand

Who learn to spread their wings

But I have something deep within

That was forever there

The person who I really am

Will always be right here

So what I have is all I am

No matter what they say

I'll be the same just like the wind

Until my dying day

HAITI

Here sometimes

The phones lines work

The electricty goes through

And the water runs clear

At other times here

Civilization fades

Sudden black outs

And useless dead phones

Here 80% of the population

Can’t read or write

Has no job

Has no food

Here surely

The mountains bear no trees

Children wash laundry by the shores

Houses are no more then sheds

Here obviously

Is a third world country

One of those struck with sever poverty

One viewed with pity

Here however

Shall I stay

For here

Lays my heart

Beats my blood

Rests my soul

My country is dying

It’s children are fleeing

It will not die alone

Here I stay

Hoping a cure

Is found in time

If that should fail

Here I stay

My country

I shall lay to rest.

*********************************************

Upon the Air

Upon the air

Send in the clown”

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

and calls itself a clown

It makes us smile and makes us laugh

While it cuts its host in half

And hides its awfull frown

Sadness paints a smile apon my face

A look of happiness and grace

just a mask to hide its trace

As wounds and scars my soul deface

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

False show of laughter

The mournful soul that always cries

Lies deep within the eyes

Sees the truth, no ones after

Sadness paints a smile apon my face

A look of happiness and grace

just a mask to hide its trace

As wounds and scars my soul deface

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

Blood that will not show

It hides itself behind the careless glee

The soul that is not free

Drowning in its woe

Sadness paints a smile apon my face

A look of happiness and grace

just a mask to hide its trace

As wounds and scars my soul deface

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

But shows no emotion

Finds no release for what it's feeling

oblivion more appealing

seeks its own demotion

Sadness paints a smile apon my face

A look of happiness and grace

just a mask to hide its trace

As wounds and scars my soul deface

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

Seeks attention it draws

As it finds sweet hidding in the crowds

stolidity souls only shrouds

Leaves heart without cause

Sadness paints a smile apon my face

A look of happiness and grace

just a mask to hide its trace

As wounds and scars my soul deface

Sadness paints a smile apon its face

Never lets it down

See the joyful look apon its cheery head

Eyes longing to be dead

Laugh at the clown!

***********************************************

How Sad

There's a man in the mirror

Just look there and see,

It's a face of sheer terror

That just shouldn't be.

So if you can see him

dont stay for too long

It might make your day dim

to see something wrong

For all he has wasted,

And less he has won,

The life he has tasted

Was not always fun.

but he had a great future

His grades where all A's,

His friends they did torture

They ruined his days.

So if you can see him

dont stay for too long

It might make your day dim

to see something wrong

Though he rarely was happy

Would not show his cries.

Afraid to look sappy

He just closed his eyes.

He never found good friends,

He just found despair.

They teased him for his trends

And pulled at his hair.

There's a man in the mirror

Just look there and see,

It's a face of sheer terror

That just shouldn't be.

He knew he was foolish

For he heard it quite oft

They said he looked ghoulish

And his spine was quite soft

They called him a loser

And made fun of his tics,

They Said "You're a Snoozer"

As they beat him with sticks

So if you can see him

dont stay for too long

It might make your day dim

to see something wrong

He made himself not feel,

disappear in a fog

They said, "go ahead, squeal

Cause you look like a hog"

So he lived in the corners

And moved by the walls

He knew of no mourners

If he were to fall

So if you can see him

Then hurry and run

Now life is at his vim

For he carries a gun

Then one day, he saw her,

She looked like a star.

His mind in a soft blur

Wouldn't leave her too far

He went to pick flowers

Held them by the spur

He watched her for hours

But felt like a cur.

There's a man in the mirror

Just look there and see,

It's a face of sheer terror

That just shouldn't be.

He finaly did it,

Her friends they did laugh.

She said "go away shit."

His heart split in half.

She dared not risk mocking

Still for him her heart bled.

They heard the door locking

Before he blew off his head.

See the man in the mirror,

in weakness on knees,

who holds the dead nearer

is a father who pleas.

March 3, 2004 (rewritten)

Silly Verse

My name is Spike I. Hammer

Learned carpentry while in the slammer

Many houses I have made

Lots of money I was paid

Quickly, I fled each town

Before any of the houses tumbled down

One day at a rummage sale

I met a girl named, Rusty Nails

I took her for my wedded wife

And thus began an awful life

All we did was stay at home

No more was I allowed to roam

Couldn't even bet the horses

Driven, to save for Spike Junior's colleges courses

Had I known my life would have been that way

I never would have married Rusty Nails that day

I packed my duds, and now I'm free

Married life was not for me

I hooked up with a group called Writing Road

Friends, there, put me in a writing mode

Soon after, I published my first book

Titled, My Adventures As A Crook

*****************************************

Little Things

Snuggled in bed listening to rain

Sparkling champagne

Pulling taffy by the mile

Seeing a child's smile

Fat babies to tickle

Crunchy dill pickles

Moonlight shimmering over beach sand

Strolling hand and hand

Comfortable black pants

Picnics without ants

Blooming flowers of Spring

Hearing little birds sing

Fishing trout from a brook

Reading a good book

A glance of romance

Slow music to dance

Ribbons and lace

Kisses on my face

Lazing in the sun

Sleeping when the day is done

=====

Rena

Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of

U.S. and International copyright law.

Bloodied Shadows.

He swooped down low from high dark cloud,

City streets pass, dressed in night's shroud.

Peering into corners and trash,

Lives wasting fast in drugged out flash.

In those bloodied shadows he'd find,

a past to conjure in his mind.

A story he would dare to tell,

of how one made it through that hell.

Driven on by a need to share,

the nightmares he's still hiding there.

His next fresh victim he soon spies,

he stares into her searching eyes.

In through the gateway to her soul,

Until morn' breaks, he'll feel so whole.

In those shadows just before dawn,

A new scribe will that night be born.

Slip of the tongue?

Just like that, cut to the quick.

A simple word, it did the trick.

You didn't even see my pain,

as silently I go insane.

No you didn't call me mad,

or even suggest that I am bad.

Didn't call me names as such,

or have to shout out loud that much.

A question asked of the artist soul,

that opened up a deep dark hole.

There in the caverns I long to hide,

as a part of me just died inside.

Invisible label pinned on me,

as simple as is seems to be.

A waste of time, even a joke.

That's how you view this writer bloke.

What was it you asked? What did you say?

"How long can you go on this way?"

"When will you get a proper job?"

Two lines with which my heart you rob!

A waste of effort, perhaps of time?

But I won't give up, is that a crime?

Then one day the labels will change,

as I fly so far beyond your range!

Copyright © A J Davie 2004 all rights reserved. Reproduction of any content above, is strictly prohibited under international copyright law. Anyone failing to comply with the above without prior permission, will suffer legal action without prejudice or relent!

Let You Down Again

You don't have any answers

You don't even have a clue

That the trouble so deep within me

Has so much to do with you

I know I said it was easy

I know I acted the part

But the pain of knowing I've wronged again

Is tearing up my heart

I let you down again

And the pain isn't all on me

I let you down, and passed you by

All for sympathy.

If I could take it all away

I'd tell you how I'd be

But I let you down again

How can I let me free

Bound by the bullet that's fired

From my soul to yours

My Lord has led me through a path

I don't know what to explore

Frozen by the knowledge that

My life's a downward spin

I pray for the moment we have right now

This moment will never end

I let you down again

And the pain isn't all on me

I let you down, and passed you by

All for sympathy

If I could take it all away

I'd tell you how I'd be

But I let you down again

How can I let me free

Walking Dreamer

Walking dreamer come again

I was lost inside my own emotions

Yet I know you're always there

Every time I close my eyes to sleep

But this time you walked away

Let yourself down from your pedestal

And I'm here all by myselfWith no place to goI cannot sleep tonight

Without you

You're all I haveI want to be with you

Walking dreamer come again

I want to be with you

Walking dreamer

Walking dreamer hand in hand

Hold on to your premonitions

You would never let them go

I could not fly through my own fantasy

But this time you walked away

Let yourself down from your pedestalAnd I'm here all by myself

And I don't know where to go

I cannot sleep tonight

Without you

You're all I haveI want to be with you

Walking dreamer come again

I want to be with you

Walking dreamer

Walking dreamer come again

I want to be with you

Bitter Cold

Summer passes, passion fades

The touch that could once start a fire

Burns like frostbite against her skin

Longer days, burning sun

Give way to dreary clouds of gray

Leaving a trembling chill throughout

Her heart, bitter cold

Reflecting all sheвЂ™s felt in return

For her undying committed love

Time ticks, still moves

Yet she still longs for yesterday

And hopes they can find their way

______________________

~~Connie~~

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www.butterflyfiction.com

Mournful Sighs

==============

The wind gathers them up. You can hear them, if you listen carefully enough. And if you have the right kind of ears, the ones that hear the sun rise and the grass grow. Not just any wind, though. Not the winter tempests that gather the rage and grief and chill the bitter tears as they whip them from the face, nor the dancing spring zephyrs that catch laughter and shouts of joy. No, it is the early autumn wind that gathers the sighs, the wind that shakes the russet leaves, but only causes the very weakest to fall. Only the very weakest fall. For now.

Listen:

Laurie sits on her father’s lap as he helps her to reply to the email. "Look, you click on the reply icon - that’s the little picture of an arrow - no, the orange arrow pointing left, yes, that one, now you have somewhere to type your reply..."

Suzie has moved to Spain. She’s been Laurie’s best friend since they sat together on their first day at school, and laughed together at Miss Johnson’s garish cardigan and frizzy hair. They had joined the drama club together and had gone to ballet class together after school, and both thought that Avril Lavine was cool and that Busted were not. At that age, that’s enough to make friends that would be inseparable for life. Or so she had thought, until Suzie came in that Tuesday morning and said that her dad had found a new job. Laurie was pleased; she knew Suzie’s family had been finding things hard since her dad had been made redundant last February. But then Suzie said that it meant she would have to move away, and Laurie’s world hung suspended for a moment...

"...and if you press alt-q - hold down the alt key and press q - you’ll get her original message, so you can interleave your reply…" Laurie kept telling herself that they would keep in touch, they could email every day, it was only a ninety-minute flight from London so they could visit in the holidays. But as she struggled to remember strange combinations of keys, something told her that it wouldn’t happen; a few emails, but only when she could drag her father from the TV to help her, a Christmas card, and it would all fade out. Her first lost friend.

It was a warm September, and the windows were open. The wind found it easy to come in and carry away her mournful sigh.

Listen:

Michelle rushed from the dining hall with the taste of breakfast’s beans and bacon still in her mouth. She dashed to the common room to get her mail from her pigeonhole, then headed across campus to the lecture theatre; she was late for a lecture on 19th Century Attitudes to Greek Philosophy. As she went, she shuffled through her post. "Bill, bill, advertisement, oh!" - she had bumped into somebody. As she looked up, she saw that it was Mark. Damn! Why did it have to be Mark, the one person on campus above all who she wanted to impress. "Sorry, Mark, must dash - bill, ah, mum!" She stuffed the other envelopes into the Hessian bag that was slung over her shoulder, alongside the ring binder and pencil case, and pulled the pale blue envelope open. She looked up to cross the busy road that bisected the campus, then started reading the letter as she trotted past the computer science building. Suddenly she stopped, with a sharp intake of breath. "Cream!", she gasped.

"Cream bun", the sort of pun that appeals to an eight-year-old girl being given a pet rabbit for her birthday. A little bundle of white fur with erect ears and rather sharper claws than she had expected, with which she could dig arms as well as the ground when Michelle tried to move her to clean her hutch. And that peed on settee when Michelle sat with her for a family photograph. But little by little they had got used to each other, until Cream would rush excitedly to the door as Michelle opened it, and would nuzzle her hand.

By the time Michelle was doing her school leaving exams, Cream didn't exactly rush excitedly anywhere any more, but liked to sleep cradled in Michelle's arms. It was never really discussed, just understood, that Cream would stay with Michelle's parents while Michelle was at college; Cream seemed to belong more to the house, to the furniture, than to any person, even Michelle. Besides, she wouldn't be allowed in the halls of residence, so there was really nothing to decide.

Thirteen years. A reasonable life for a rabbit, though not great. Michelle read that her father had buried Cream at the bottom of the garden, in an unmarked spot. The campus wind carried away her mournful sigh as she moved on, more slowly now, to her encounter with Kierkegaard.

Listen:

"Damn, who the hell is that?"

Michael hit the mute button on the television remote, moved aside a foil tray of cold chop-suey and two old newspapers and lifted the telephone handset, knocking over an empty beer-can with the cord. "Oh, hi, Luce, how ya doin'? ... No, you're not interrupting anything". He was trying desperately to lipread the contestant on the TV, who was explaining how the device his team was assembling from scrapyard junk would toss a car into the air, this week's challenge. "No, it's always great to hear

from you".

Always great, that is, as long as he could distract himself. Always great, as long as he didn't think about those hazel eyes, that auburn hair, and how they looked like out-of-focus van Gogh swirls when he kissed her. As long as he didn't think about how it was him, out of all the boys in the school, that she chose to go to the pictures with, how they used to cycle together into town on Saturdays to go to the gallery or museum and just hold each other in the presence of antiquity, thinking of all those centuries, all those generations all those people who had held each other as they held each other, and could they possibly have loved as he loved Luce? And the Sundays, when they would cycle to the countryside, and what they did beside that hedge in the cornfield on that sticky August day, how he had woven a wedding-ring from a corn stalk, how they imagined the bees humming the wedding march, how they hesitatingly and tenderly consummated their private blessing at dusk.

It would be over by harvest.

"Yes, I'm keeping fine...no, still on my own...yeah, sad to be stuck in front of the telly on a Saturday night, isn't it?"

Always great, as long as he doesn't think of that night with Sue, that stupid f***ing night with Sue, when they has both got completely out of their heads at Al's twenty-first birthday party and Luce had caught them in the pub car park with their hands in each other's clothes. Al and Chas had had to pull Luce off him, still kicking and screaming. A few months later Luce started going out with Chas, and Michael started staying in with a pack of beer. It was a wonder they stayed in touch, but they had all the same friends, and when Luce married Chas two years later it was pretty evident that she was over Michael. They even invited him to the wedding, though he didn't go. He wondered if she was just trying to rub it in, remind him of what he'd blown. Still, twelve years is a lot of time for healing. Or for learning to cope.

"You are? Oh, that's wonderful, congratulations! When is it due? ... You've been trying for so long, haven't you? ... Is it going ok? I mean, thirty-three is quite late for one's first ... oh, good. Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"

Small-talk, small-talk. On the television the team had built a sort of trebuchet to hurl the scrap car. It collapsed under the weight of the car.

"Well, mustn't keep you ... yes, you and Chas must come over for a meal some time, it's been so long since we saw each other ... take care".

The room was warm and draught-free, but it didn't matter. Some sighs the wind can catch through walls.

Listen:

Alice was alone in the double bed, as usual. There seemed to be more of her nightdress than there was of her, a frail old woman, barely causing a fold in the covering. The wallpaper in the room was peeling, the windows cracked and covered with cardboard and the carpet was threadbare. She hadn't the strength to look after the house any more, though when her daughter and son-in-law has suggested that she should go into a nursing home, move out of the bed she had shared with Jack for nearly sixty years she had found a strength that had startled the couple. They were in Australia now, and couldn't help with the housekeeping, but a nurse came from social services twice a week to make sure Alice was alright and to do the things that absolutely had to be done.

Alice was dreaming, dreaming of Jack as she always did. How fine he had looked in his air-force uniform that day at the dance. He always thought that he had noticed Alice first, but Alice remembered how hard she had worked to make sure he noticed her - and to make sure he though that he had noticed her first. She dreamed of their wedding and their wedding night. She couldn't remember the sex, though she was sure they must have done it, but clearly remembered the wonder of the intimacy, of warm skin by warm skin, of somebody breathing by her side. Sex didn't have to mean anything, but to sleep with somebody you had to trust them, really trust them. She couldn't remember any arguments, fights and very few bad times, not because they didn't happen but because it's the memories you rarely bring to the fore, rarely dwell on that fade first. She didn't remember her labour pains, but remembers Mary not being there and then being there, a pink mass of fingers, toes and smiles that the midwife said were just wind. She remembered Mary's first day at school, her wedding, seeing her off at the airport as she flew off to Australia. All these things she remembered, but not at the moment. At the moment she dreamed of Jack.

And she dreamed of a bad time. The worst time. That morning just over eight years earlier when she had woken up to find that the bed was not as warm as usual. The worst time was that instant when she wondered whether he was going to wake up, the instant when the world stopped, when her empty belly felt as though it had even less than nothing in it. That instant when she had not known what to do. When she realised that he would not wake up, would never wake up, then she knew what to do. And she did it, and the wind that caught that cry of grief was not our wind of sighs but a January blizzard that closed roads and schools and factories and made the city glad that they were not out in such a wounding gale.

But eight years is time enough for a storm to die down, and gradually she learned to put less water in the kettle and buy fewer potatoes. She learned to tell her reminiscences to the photographs of her daughter and grandson. She learned to sleep in a cold bed.

She dreamed now that the wind came through her cracked window-pane and that the wind was made of all the sighs and all the sorrows of the world. She dreamed that she asked the wind why it brought her all this sadness. And she dreamed that the wind spoke with Jack's voice, and the wind replied "I do not bring sadness; I carry it away".

And the wind took her final mournful sigh, and was gone.

Listen...

Lady of The Street

Gloria was as glorious as ever, drunk, loud and smelling of sweat and stale alcohol. As usual she was indulging in her delusion. She spent most of her day walking around her estate. Her town centre home, with a lake in the park and a forest of office blocks in her garden was the centre of excellence for banking and business alike. Her haute couture was folded neatly with all her other possessions in a supermarket trolley, discarded as not the right sort to house in the shop and she stood on the street corner raving at the people as they went about their day.

They had tried to get her arrested again, of course. It was impossible to go to the office and face the day in the air conditioned calm of polite company when confronted with a reminder of the fragility of the veneer of society. How is it possible to enjoy a bottle of Chardonnay with lunch when there is a bag lady outside shovelling lamb Dansak, with a slice of cold Mexican Chicken special pizza, which she had mine swept out of the bin. How can one enjoy the finesse of one’s wine when she is standing there swigging cheap sherry out of the bottle. Everyone knew her but no one knew, or wanted to know, who she was. A titter of self conscious giggle gaggle floated around the leather chesterfields as she stuck her head around the door and raved into the wine bar.

“You bastards have no idea. You think you’re better than me but you are not. They could steal your house from you too you know”.

Gloria’s delusion was the insanity that kept her sane. As she went about her day, toting everything she possessed before her, she ranted to all and sundry about her dream cottage. Nobody ever listened to her of course, she was a source of amusement to the lunchtime shoppers and an icon of disgust for the executives who might have the idea that life was a constant struggle to win at all costs.

“There but for the grace of god…”, the Armani suit uttered to the Porsche driver, failing to be bothered to complete the over scrubbed clichй to the selectively deaf Stoic.

Jane Sanderson was disgusted. She had risen through the ranks at the law firm where she had served her articles before qualifying as a solicitor. She was a high flyer. Her disgust was not at the clearly mentally ill woman at the door, but at the self absorbed clientele who had the arrogance to laugh at the poor woman’s misfortune. Jane thought her likely to be schizophrenic , neurotic and alcoholic. What ever she was in her deluded state, she did not deserve to be laughed at. Her stiff faced stare at the room was noted by her colleagues around the lunch table. She was naпve in her concept. They all knew Gloria of old and the knowing glances sealed Jane’s fate. She was about to be set up with the company’s stock practical joke.

Every new lawyer had been had with catharsis gloriana as the sting had come to be known among the well educated school in chambers: those in the loop; in the know, educated to the facts. The next morning Jane was vaguely aware that there were knowing glances from the reception and office staff as she came into chambers. She thought she was paranoid when she was sure she saw the clerk repress a smirk as the appointments for her day were handed over: Eleven a.m. Mrs Wilson. Housing dispossession, was all the information she had in the diary.

Most of the morning was spent on the bread and butter drudgery of conveyancing property; A legal requirement to sell houses but it kept her in clean undies. She was glad for the break when coffee was wheeled in on the housekeeper’s hostess trolley. Her appointment had arrived and was ushered quickly into her room. As the door shut she heard the distinct sound of a can of air freshener as it was deployed around the landing and staircase. And there, as large as life itself was the veritable vision of Gloria in all her glory. The smell was almost overpowering and Jane had to feign a cough as she gagged at he shock of it. As she asked Mrs Wilson to take a seat she could see head lice crawling across her brow and then disappearing into the mass of blackened scalp and hair on her head. She had no time to cut her client short as she ripped into a tirade of rage.

As Mrs Wilson poured her diatribe of verbal nonsense, Jane was forced to listen. She was not to know it but she was the first person who had listened to Mrs Wilson’s story in twenty years, which was the entire time that Gloria had been a bag lady.

Her story related a strange set of events. She had lived in a neat and well kept council house, a cottage in fact that had roses around the door and Hollyhocks in the garden. Her description left a picture of a real address with a picture postcard faзade and location. She told of visits from the council, of men in suits. She told of their rude and insistent manner. She related the full brutal and callous execution of an eviction order that made her homeless. She related the cynical uncaring disregard with which her pleas for help to get another address were ignored. She told that she could not make anyone listen because she was treated as a homeless case. The fact that they had made her homeless was conveniently ignored. To her it stank. To the rest of the world, it seems, she stank.

Jane listened with sceptical enthusiasm. If this woman was telling the truth, then the people who evicted her had in fact robbed her of her home. She doubted the veracity of the tale. As she listened with one ear, she keyed her way through the internet and came across the case in a couple of minutes. It only took a scanning read of the facts presented to see that if this is what had gone on, then Gloria Wilson was a bag lady because someone had decided they liked the look of her cottage.

In the courtroom the judge listened with intent. The facts were laid before the court and in conclusion certain instructions were given to the defendant. The local council repurchased the property at the sellers asking price. They removed all the plastic framed windows, the decking, gazebo, the plastic pepper pot conservatory and the new hard standing for the seven series ‘beamer’ where the garden used to be. They had to engage a consultant horticulturalist to restore the cottage garden to the state it was in when Mrs Wilson was evicted, to the exact specifications of the plaintiff. They had to replace the roses around the door and the fire grate in the front room. They had to replace every brick and shingle to exactly the same state as it was when Mrs Wilson was thrown out. Mrs Wilson had to take some carrier bags in her trolley, to put the plastic wrappers from the showroom new furniture that the council were forced to replace for her. She demanded that the council send someone to remove the rubbish that some nameless, homeless, forgotten bag lady had dumped on the street outside her nice cottage in suburbia.

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