Blue Sea Writers

Shepherd’s Fete

Wed, 02 Jun 2021 16:00:00 Z

My sheep bleat, a rambling reminder, a yodel of life.

I’m chasing a phone signal, trying to catch it with the net, like bugs.

Strong green lines are more pressing than the warm breath of my woolly flock, of herding them to the next field. They’ve chewed the grass almost down to its roots. The adjacent field is green and overgrown. It glistens with dew, alive in its being. Lazing on the wall of the round brick well, in the middle of the open land, I use the heel of my boot to scrape the sheep droppings from the side the other boot. I give up and frown, staring, holding up my phone.

My sheep are stoic. They stare at me, blank, mimicking me. They’re waiting. They are further away from me than usual, distant.

I was a happy farmer. Before. I can’t place the defining moment. The moment I was abducted. It was slow. I was stalked, crept up on. It was persistent, skilled, like my sheep herding Collie. Where is he? I’ve been infiltrated, kidnapped by a web of lies, a knitted network of social euphoria, lavish opinions and narcissism.

“Border!” I look for his shaggy black coat, his white chest. He’s absent. I’m absent. He’s unfollowed me.

The weak signal has disappeared. I look back at the sheep and have the urge to do something strange. A comical jig on the well? They seem to want to be entertained. I could learn some moves on YouTube.

I need Border to do his thing. To run the width of the field, side to side, behind the flock, gathering momentum, inching them forward. Every so often he centres himself mid field, lowers his white chest and skulks behind them, creeping, focused, nipping their hooves if needs be, influencing them to follow the sheep at the front of the group. I used to love watching him.

I sigh. I wonder if I have received approval for the ‘Are you wasting your Life’ group. I answered the questions as best I could. Feisty, go getting. Strange one needs approval. I can’t remember the reasons I gave for wanting to be part of it. I check my phone again. It’s hard to see the screen, the glare of the day is blocking it. There aren’t any green lines.

And where’s Mammoth? The friendliest sheep. The one who’s old and greets me with more of a growly moo than a baa. If I can get him moving the rest will follow.

The post by a banker is on my mind. I could be a banker, I was good at maths at school and quite ballsy. I could trade Cryptocurrency. I need to watch that saved video. I could write a book, not just read one. I must fix my old Yamaha dirt bike. I should compete in the Motocross. I want to learn about the star constellations and how they affect me. I know Gemini’s get distracted, that’s what Ken said. He waffled on about it when he served me a pint the other night. Who’d have known he was into that? I want to do more photography. Funny pictures of my sheep on Instagram? Everyone’s a photographer. Everyone’s ordinary is epic.

I need followers though. Shots of the sheep by the turnstile, the conker tree. I could show them grazing and running free, could call it Little Bo Peep. Big Bo Peek. That’s good. But she hasn’t lost them. It would need to be changed to He, too. They’ll need a wash. Dirty sheep aren’t pleasing to look at. At least they can’t smell them.

The sheep look a bit underweight, Their coats, flat like a carpet on their sides, like a cardboard box, instead of plump like a teddy bear. The ground is bare. I should have moved them a week ago.

I yawn, my eyes heavy. I’ve quite a headache too. I’m full of stolen ideas and dreams. Filched by the ones I follow. I ache for their accomplishments. Why, I don’t know. Keeping up with the Jones’s never seemed so endearing. Now it’s keeping up with the whole world.

Where’s Border? Mammoth?

I turn around on the spot. I give it a shake and get one weak line.

I look at someone’s inane timeline. I look at the celebrations of others that I don’t care about. I don’t mean to be unkind but it’s true. They don’t care for mine either. I wish them well, but it’s not important to me. And it would be weird if it was. But it flashes at me. Joyful events. Generic. So common, so usual, they’re no longer celebratory. Standard comments. Universal remarks, flippantly posted, hollow, but it steals attention. Love you. Congratulations. You’re the best.

“Baa!” I bleat. They still stare. Expectant. I’m doing nothing, “shoo” I say, my arms flicking them away.

Everyone is special. Everyone is the same. Each of us funny. All of us projecting, performing, creating. We mould into one. Regurgitated. One life. One way. One web. I’m following. I’m nipping at their posts. They’re nipping at mine. But it’s not a full bite is it, like a piece of chocolate cake?

“Mammoth!” We used to be friends, there was an understanding, a relationship between us and where on earth is Border?

Where are the days when I lived my life and others lived theirs? Ignorance keeps our fortune in check. If I was meant to be something else, fate would intervene. Social media isn’t divinity. It’s the waning moon, a dark foreboding authority, opening vaults with treasures that aren’t mine. I’m in the wrong space. Free will has censured my purpose. Renounced it. Its say so is soliciting social supremacy. I’m in command. Self-determined force has destroyed my karma. It’s not a choice, it’s interference. It’s latent propaganda. Pollution.

“I was born to farm.” I affirm weakly.

Mammoth head-butts my shin and I stumble, knocking my wrist on the well. I loosen my grip. The phone bounces once and somersaults down into the well.

“For fuck’s sake.” I didn’t notice him sneak up.

I kick him away and lean over the well. It’s dark. I can’t see anything. Seconds lapse before I hear the faint clunk as it hits the bottom. I knew there wouldn’t be a splash. It’s as dry as providence not pursued.

“Fuck.”

The sheep are bleating loudly. I turn around. They’re prancing. Mammoth is only feet from me and looks stern. He can’t be frowning. Sheep don’t frown. Is he lowering his head? He’s going to ram me.

Skirting the wall of the well, I slink round, until I’m behind it.

Sheep aren’t aggressive.

They’re gathered together. I’m blocked by the well.

Get a grip. They’re my sheep.

A bark in the distance is extremely welcome. The sheep disperse, frantic, unsure which way to go. I can see Border’s white chest through the gap.

He’s legging it. On a mission. There are others behind him.

“Hello boy” I say, down on my knees. He looks a little sad. His eyes. I’m not sure.

“I’m sorry,” I say and hug his dirty fur, a smell of sweat and mud. He wags his tail. I’m not sure what I’m apologising for.

“Oi!” shouts Ken, waving, “I thought you would’ve moved them by now!”

Behind him is Gary, our local hairdresser, Sarah the baker and Marge who owns the garden nursery and dabbles in fortune telling at the weekend. They’re struggling with the long, flapping rectangle sign, ‘Summer Fete.’

Marge gives me a whack on the head.

“Nice to see you too,” I scowl.

“What’s up with you these days?” she says

I don’t know.

“All and sundry will be turning up in a few hours. There’s tons to do.” She strokes Border and looks back at me.

“I got distracted, Sorry.” I glance back at the well.

“Nothing down there for you love,” she says

“You’re right about that,” I give her a hug. She smells of lavender, “My field’s all yours.”

“You’re a star,” she says squeezing my shoulder.

“I’m a Shepherd. That’s what I am.”

The whistle is on my lips. I don’t need to blow. Border knows what to do. I stretch my arm out, strong and straight, stiff as a wooden signpost towards the adjacent field. Border follows its direction and woofs. He’s got it.

We herd. We’re working. I’m leading. Mammoth is right behind me and the rest of the flock follow. Border is at the back, keeping us straight. We move in unison. We’re in time. We’re in the same space.

It didn’t take long. We saunter back into the field, and I marvel at how much they’ve done. Each to their own. It looks fantastic. The smell of locally brewed beer and sausages soften my taught brow.

Gary asks if I want a free haircut and possibly a shave. It’s for charity. I nearly thump him one but I just laugh. Sarah is doing dog washes, Border included although we need to allot more time for him. We enjoy some pampering and settle down to fill our stomachs. Sausage and potato salad for me, a steak for Border.

Ken is taking photos with his old Pentax Camera. I look over his shoulder and watch him carefully set up the shots.

“Got some good ones here, I think” he says, “Half the fun is not knowing how they’ll turn out.”

Marge is using a polaroid, taking pics of flowers or bushes, anything with foliage. Each potted plant for sale gets one. It’s balanced between its leaves like a gift card. One off photos, no duplicates.

I circulate, chat to friends I haven’t spoken to for a while. It’s nice. I don’t need to catalogue it. I’m too busy enjoying it. No need to record it. It’s a day for the community. We’re all here. We won’t forget it. You never forget how something makes you feel.

The sun is sliding towards the moon, the change-over will be soon. I whistle at Border all fluffy and clean and we head over to the adjacent field to check on the sheep. I rest my elbows on the metal gate and Border sticks his head through the rungs.

“They’re alright, aren’t they boy?” I say, and watch Mammoth close to the fence.

He sees us and stares. I shouldn’t have kicked him. It wasn’t hard but.

I’m waiting. He treads carefully towards us and he brushes my knee with his cheek.

“I’m a Shepherd.” I whisper.

What Happens to Reluctant Writers

Wed, 05 May 2021 11:00:00 Z

She didn’t want to be a writer and yet whole works of fiction were squashed tight in her brain, like a packed carton of ripe tomatoes. If not used, stuffed in, suffocated, they would pulverise.

She pushed the wheelbarrow, laden with boxes of ripe produce out of her fruit and vegetable plot, her whitewashed cottage behind her. It was early. Today was the farmers market.

Words pounded and persistent sentences tapped on, a veracious keyboard that hopped between the left and right hemispheres of her brain. Logic versus imagination, language and plot versus creativity.

She wasn’t enamoured by artists. Unpractical, slovenly, dramatic. A precocious vocation to make sense of things. Nonsense. As a horticulturist, the hands on, physical labour suited her. But its therapeutic nature allowed for her brain’s over activity.

"Morning Prudence," waved Mrs Bracken, her neighbour, "Looks like quite a picking," she said, watching Prudence load up the battered green Land Rover.

"Here," said Prudence, cupping three plump tomatoes, "On me." she said as she handed them to Mrs Bracken in a brown paper bag.

"You squashed one," groaned Mrs Bracken. "Lost in thought dear?"

"Sorry," Prudence said and salvaged the over ripe tomato.

The latest story of a cucumber turned courgette which fell in love with a radish was planted, embedded in her cerebrum, yet to harvest. Vying for attention was a historical fiction set in the 1600’s about a farm girl hung in the town square for stealing beetroot. Its modern twist created havoc in her mind as she imagined jeering onlookers stamping the gallows with flat yellow claps, blue thumbs or cold red hearts.

"Dear?" repeated Mrs Bracken.

Prudence squeezed the tomato, its vibrant red pulp trickled down her palm and onto her wrists, stark red against her white skin. Its juice traced the vertical line of her vein towards her elbow.

"Off with the fairies today." Prudence muttered, and dropped the mushed tomato on the gravel, and squished it with her welly. She carefully plucked a less juicy one for Mrs Bracken.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed," Hemingway warned her.

How utterly awful. No. She didn’t want to be a writer.

The tales unfolded constantly, fighting for space, wriggling along, worming their way through, digging an out from her skull. Reluctant, she resisted their advances but as the worms burrowed deeper she had moments where she prayed for a solution.

If only she could drill a memory stick into her head, puncture the stories and download them. Be done with it. She had no interest in being part of it.

"Ignoring God given potential is a sacrilege," her mother used to say, her hefty hips bumped comically from side to side, blown up like a cartoon character, as she waddled over to the cooker.

God given. She scoffed. But artists talked of a muse. Ideas from the divine. If God had all these ideas, why didn’t he write them? She had better things to do. He’d only written one book. The Bible. He was reluctant.

"You’ll pay one day," her mother wriggled her fat finger, "if you don’t use it."

Her mother’s need for at least one of her five children to shine was not her problem. And yet, here she was. One sweet story she wrote, back in her teens, and her mother had labelled her a writer. It was a curse.

She put the gear stick in second, the Land Rover was going nowhere in first. It choked, coughing like a forty a day smoker, and they spluttered off. She grinded through the gears, hit fourth and sped up on the bumpy roads.

She tanked through a red traffic light, stuck in the cucumber courgette affair, horns and screeching tires broke around her. She missed the turning for the market and after a long while, sixty odd miles later, she was back at her cottage having almost plotted the entire novel.

"Jesus!" She opened the boot of the Land Rover crammed with boxes and stared at them.

"It’s getting worse." She checked her watch. They’d be packing up the market by now.

"Enough!" She stomped in through the back door, and threw her muddy wellies on the cold stone floor and riffled through the drawers for her Dad’s old electrical shaver.

It didn’t occur to her to write down the stories but she did try to stop them, clear space for them to magically disappear. To ease them out. She turned to superstition. She relished squeezing out the contents of condiments; ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard. She cut her nails religiously, down to the quick. She threw out clothes, clutter, anything she didn’t use. Down to absolute basics. Cleaning, binning, throwing away, even photos or unnecessary furniture.

"Right," she faced the bathroom mirror, “Here we go.” She had cut her hair, intermittently over the last few months. It had gone from waist length to shoulder length to short.

She plugged in the razor and shaved it all off, every strand.

If the skin on her head could breathe a little, if the pores could get some ventilation maybe the stories would just fly away, air out, like a dusty rug.

Red sores bloomed on her head. She was back to the farm girl stealing the beetroot. She didn’t want to be a writer. She didn't stop planting seeds.

Two days on, she hadn’t slept. New ideas, plots, twists formulated. She couldn’t hold them off. Obstinate narratives typed. The pillow over her bald head didn’t stop the noise. Words jumped over one another, sentences were unfinished, stories collided.

Insomnia plagued her. Delirious, she nurtured her garden and her produce grew more magnificent than before. Beetroot and tomatoes as big as blown up balloons, vulnerable to burst.

Her thoughts fought for space. She threw out the rest of her furniture, left only with a mattress on the floor which did nothing to help her sleep. Her temples pounded and her head swelled. Potential unfulfilled.

Horrified by the red lumps growing, bulging from her head, she became frightened, deranged. She dared to prod them and wish she hadn’t. They burbled and moaned. Voices, reciting her words, her tap tapping tapped sentences.

In a lucid moment, she covered her head with a black scarf she hadn’t thrown away and vowed in the morning to get help.

She never got there.

The lumps swelled through the night. Ripe and ready. The pain was excruciating. She tried to lift her head but it was impossible. She wormed her way off the mattress, confused, her chin scraping the floor. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing more than a croak was voiced.

Her brain exploded. A repulsive massacre of curled, coiled meaty tissue, a bleeding wig, splattered, detonating like dull fireworks.

Currents of bloody lines charged across the floor. They were rapid, fearing clotting and drying up. They searched for porous material, something to spread, scrawl their words upon. The red streams branched off in all directions, novels desperate to be recorded, inked. Style and tone categorised the stories as they diverted, wriggling over one another like roads on a map.

The first blood line settled on the bedroom walls, scribbling, forming words and sentences in tiny font. The landing presented the second, and, one by one, each room displayed a story on its four walls until all the rooms in the house were covered. Titles at the top, The End at the bottom. Lines breaking chapters, even page numbers were marked.

A week later her decapitated body was discovered.

A homicide was ruled out. Nothing human could have caused such gore. Clumps of gooey clotted blood punctuated the skirting boards.

The writing was on the wall. God’s attempt at another book other than the Bible. A Palaeographer was summoned. It wasn't an ancient text. This was new. They say no story is original. They were wrong.

It took months for the novels to be computerised and published, to great acclaim.

The author’s name was Anonymous, a channel is merely a channel.

No credit for reluctant writers.

Tạm Biệt Mực - Goodbye Mick

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 10:00:00 Z

I take his lead. It’s dirty and smelly and still covered in fur. I don’t put it around his neck or lengthen it. It's folded in four, nestled in my hand. There isn’t any urgency to get out, no clattering of excited feet, no grumbles or whines, no flurrying fur, nor licks and wiggles.

I’m walking light, nothing pulling me along.

This is where he always did his morning business, on the trunk of this orange tree, the weeds enticing. Fair game for neighbourhood dogs.

I splutter, choke, tighten my lips and hold it in. It’s pushed in deep, suffocating. I curve over, hands on my knees, dizzy. I’ve no energy, have hardly eaten and I’m shrinking. It’s consumed me. Heavy short breaths, bubble up like a shaken can of fizzy drink. The seal snaps, releasing loss in spurts, I try to contain it, swallow it.

An old man waiting for something, next to the coffee shop stares at me and fiddles in his pocket and takes out some coins. I look down. I’m burrowed in layers of dirty comfy clothes which I’ve worn for days. Greasy hair is stuck to my head, splayed lifeless beneath the lopsided, half off, woolly hat and my face looks punched in.

A tramp, an abused woman, a druggie? I pull the hat on properly, right down, over my ears, my forehead. You can hardly see me.

A dog barks in the distance. The caught tears come. Streaming. Swollen eyes balloon again. I can’t open them properly. My face warps into ugly distortion and crumples, tears glistening in the creases and folds. I’m rolling further inward, hunching. I fall against the trunk of the orange tree.

It’s been a week. My gorgeous old dog, my rescue from Vietnam. I fondle his lead in both hands. It’s black, like his name, Mực, aka Mick. Ink in Vietnamese.

I managed to save him a few times.

Before he was mine, I fixed his broken leg. Our neighbours, ignorant hard hearted owners, were negligent. Back and forth I went to the vets, in the days when they were unqualified. Fighting against their inept procedures, their malpractice, their inhuman methods until finally we healed it in the safety of my home.

Ever persistent, and with skilful manipulation I managed to save him a second time, permanently, from those neighbours and call him mine. They obliged. They were more interested in their finances than caring for him, believers of a superstition that a dog in their house would make them rich. Luckily, Mick had served his purpose.

We relaxed into life and then came the third save. The stolen save. The dog meat trade. This was harrowing. The panicked dash around the dodgy alleys and hems of Saigon, of sinister phone calls with kidnappers, terrifying insights into unspoken cruelty and secret rackets revealed. Nasty ladies in cone hats and big smiles masquerading as lottery ticket sellers. The steep ransom settled and cash exchanged, he arrived on the front of a motorbike, writhing, whimpering, with an old jute bag over his head. I promised God I wouldn’t ask for anything else ever again.

The fourth save. Incomprehensible for animal lovers, but even so. Vowing never to abandon him. It’s more like a half save. I flew him, despite his old age, halfway across the world saving him from living his twilight years without me.

Four saves, but I couldn’t save him from old age.

I push away from the tree trunk and walk our way. I repeat, “He was just a dog.” How unkind I am. Just a dog. It’s not true. 'Just' is not for him. 'No more than.' That isn’t him.

Halfway there I see a friend. I fling myself into a doorway, hiding like a criminal and turn my back from the street and sink into the wall. My skin tingles as she gets closer but she passes without ado.

We came to this park every day. I see dogs and their owners. People I know by a commonality. I’m trespassing. I’m not in the club anymore.

Unfolding with his lead, I do the collar up and let it drop. The metal fastener clinks on the ground, metallic, cold. It hangs next to me, on my right, as I drag it along the pavement, scraping. We step onto the grass.

"There’s a good boy."

The lead and I pause often. Mick took his time, sniffed obsessively, excited, finding hidden traces of dogs before him. He would find the best bit and circle round and round ready to do something more pressing.

The lady with a Golden waves and I wave back. I don’t think she can see me clearly. I’m behind a low wall so she can only see the top of the lead. The wave, the familiar interaction, the social pleasantry breaks my solitude. I suddenly feel embarrassed, silly. I fold the lead.

I turn around. But now I’m stuck. A sudden pain pierces my abdomen. I keel. Daggers. I wait. It subsides. There’s a bench to my right cocooned by wild bushes full of tiny purple flowers. Mick loved it. He would reappear after a good rummage, adorned with the delicate flowers on his back, behind his ears, hanging daintily off his bushy tail.

I’ve never sat here before, we were always walking.

Lead on my lap, I close my sore eyes. It’s good to be out, the apartment is lifeless. I’m shutting down and start to nod off when I hear a shuffle. The Golden wiggles up to me and puts his soft wet nose between my knees and sniffs Mick’s lead. I lean down and give him a gentle pat. He’s a sweetie. His owner isn’t far behind. We’ve never really talked. I’m not ready but I can’t get off the bench.

I can’t speak of it. Of grief. I’m not wise to it. I’m flailing. Questioning what? My mind fills with nonsense. I’m naive, no answers, nothing to comprehend.

The Golden has settled down by my feet keeping them warm. His owner holds my hand. She says nothing. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t give answers. She understands.

After a while, I wipe my wet face and start to talk. I talk of my saves. She listens, nods, smiles. She’s had three dogs, the Golden is her third, all of them rescues.

"Only way to have a dog," she says.

I’m exploring all things existential but she’s more philosophical. What does ‘to save’ even mean? Saved from what? Our sins, ourselves? That calls on the religious and sod that. Saved from poverty, difficulty? There are many things to be saved from, but saved from heartache, grief, pain? Unlikely.

She ventures I made a fifth save, saved him from suffering at the end.

The memory of him dozing off in my arms, on my lap, falling to sleep forever imbues me.

We are in complete agreement. How silly to question the inevitable. Why are we always so distraught when it happens? And after death? I leave that one to vanish into the unknown, to rustle in the purple bushes.

Suddenly I’m hungry. I ask her if she’d like to go for dinner. She has errands to do and suggests we meet up later. We leave the park together and then she asks if I’d take Bruce for an hour, and holds out his lead. She’d be quicker without him. I readjust my hat and squeeze Mick’s lead in my hand.

"Ok, but I need to go home first," I say

"Take him with you, he’s easy." We arrange to meet in an hour.

Bruce’s paws clip clop on the wooden floor. I’m thumped in the chest. Hard. A resurrection. His steps are heavier than Mick’s, a different tone, different rhythm. He wags his tail and whizzes in and out of rooms, skids back and gulps the water from the bowl which I haven’t moved. I take a shower and leave Bruce with a treat.

Cleaned up, I open the doors onto the terrace, a light breeze blows up dust. Bruce and I sit and watch the sunset. Mick’s fur is disturbed. It whispers up from the corners of the living room and under furniture. Light as smoke, grey and black, it sighs and swirls as it rolls across the floor out into the sky. Bruce licks my cheek. The cheek so often licked by Mick.

I fasten Bruce’s lead, tuck a doggy bag in my pocket and crouch beside him before we leave,

"Good boy Bruce. You just made a save."

There was something about it being made by a dog that shone with the essence of a freed spirit, a loving ghost.

"Thank you Mick," I said.

Covid-19 Celebrations

Wed, 03 Feb 2021 12:00:00 Z

“Cake for breakfast?” Izzy frowned, still in her nightie, looking at the kitchen table. It was laid with a cake; a rich triple layered cream covered affair, three plates, fake champagne and coffee.

“Good morning sweetie pie.” Mum said.

Izzy cocked her head to one side, and puffed out a bored sigh.

Dad lifted his arms “Sixteenth birthday!” followed by “Sweet sixteen today!” from mum who lit the candles on the cake and clapped in rapid bursts.

“I’m not eating that now! Are you crazy?” Izzy grabbed a glass by the sink and filled it with water.

Dad chuckled, “Lockdown rules! The world’s gone mad, and so have we!”

She flopped over to the table, and gulped down the water, “Any post?”

“Don’t think so. Sit down love and let’s have cake.” Mum said, tapping the chair.

Izzy snuffed out the candles with her fingers, yanked them out one by one, threw them in the bin and then shoved her hands under the tap, “Lurgy precautions, no spitting on the candles.”

“We have to sing,” Dad said, “Happy Birthday to you-”

“For god’s sake.” Izzy turned her back and stomped off down the hallway.

A small white envelope was stuck half way through the letterbox. She glanced over her shoulder, pulled it out and then hid it under her nightie.

“Anything?” Mum called,

“No.”

Izzy shot across the hall into the main bathroom and locked the door. Falling to her knees she vomited in the loo. Her head, resting on her arm on the toilet seat, was thumping, heavy with the weight of the terrifying, almost certain conclusion.

She crawled to the bathroom door and leaned against it and opened the envelope. It contained a small box with Clearblue written on it. As if an invisible force had punched her in the chest, she opened her mouth and drew in air, her lungs forcing her to take a breath. She’d been forgetting to breathe lately. She took a couple of deep breaths, was it possible to fool the body and override its default position?

“Izzy?”

She flinched and smacked her head on the door knob, and shoved the box in her pants.

“What?” She looked up at the ceiling, opened her mouth and screamed silently. Her head was thumping again. She turned the shower on to drown out interruptions.

“You having a shower? Izzy?” Mum knocked on the door. “Well, don’t be too long.”

She opened the box, pulled out the contents, and read the instructions a few times. She took a deep breath, sat on the loo and peed on the plastic rod. She had three minutes.

She placed it on the side of the basin, got into the bath and turned the shower on forgetting to take off her nightie. She sat, knees to her chest, curled up under the warm water. Her eyes were fixated on the rod which was half on, half off the edge of the basin, swaying a little, finding its balance. She rocked back and forth, mimicking its sway. It stilled at a tilt. Would that give her an inaccurate result? She tucked her head between her knees, praying the warm shower would wash everything away. Four months without a period, shit. They had only just gone into lock-down. What was she going to do? She couldn’t. Was she too late? Were clinics even open?

“Izzy, put a wiggle in it! Party time!” It was Dad.

She lifted her face towards the water which tasted salty as it streamed down her face. She edged forward to the side of the bath and picked up the rod. She closed her eyes, this would be a good time to fool her body. She held her breath hoping to break its survival instinct. It didn’t work. Opening her eyes, one at a time, she looked.

Two blue lines.

Neil Sedaka’s ‘Happy Birthday, Sweet Sixteen’ blasted out from the kitchen.

Fran jumped out of bed at eleven in the morning, having only just got in, reluctantly, at seven. Her thoughts had been whirling with possibilities and uncertainty was charming her.

She stood in front of the living room mirror, a pencil case, adorned with butterflies, for a microphone and sang along to a funked-up version of ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ by some YouTuber. With utter delight she noticed a twinkle in her eyes she had never, not ever, seen.

She twirled into the kitchen, retrieved her notebook, and looked at the page with her goals on it. Resting her elbows on the counter, she admired her handiwork.

Her hidden ambitions and dreams were bared in felt-tip pen. Some were highlighted and some had doodled stars next to them or exclamation marks. Hearts blended in crayon spotted the page, like a stamp sealing her desires.

She closed it carefully and placed it on the top of the self-empowering books she’d used as a guide. It was a masterpiece. It was all there.

Locked in; out of the ordinary, the expected, had been a blessing for her. She put her hands together in prayer and closed her eyes; an enforced pause, the solo retreat crowned by a glory of new insights had been dramatic, yet there hadn’t been visitations from angels or wise words from the Divine but there had been a moment’s clarity, an ethereal illumination of truth.

She couldn’t rationalise it, but she could sense it with such potency her intuition had crawled to her outsides and stuck on the walls of her confinement cell. Lock-down had unstitched the seams of her straitjacket and freed her worn conditioning.

She spied the bottle of Rosé on the counter top which she’d been saving especially. She was no longer an unwitting, floundering excuse of a person; she was empowered.

It was a little early but she uncorked the wine, took a glass, picked up a box of cherries and walked into her sunny garden.

‘Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen’ was booming out from a house nearby, fighting for air space with ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow.’ She paused at ‘skies are blue’ and sang along to Sweet Sixteen, delighted she didn’t have to re-live those years. The music stopped abruptly and she could hear raised voices and something kicking off.

She stretched out in the lounger and sighed, her mood sagging. She had one last thing to do.

She picked up her phone, filled her glass and typed, “Call you in an hour,” and pressed send.

She didn’t mention anything about it being their wedding day, now cancelled, consequences of the Covid curse. She couldn’t call it a curse though, could she? Not for her.

She took the cherries out of the cardboard box and put them in a bowl but suddenly realised, even though she’d washed them earlier, that she’d put them back in the original box from the shop. She whizzed back inside and washed her hands. Damn virus, it was never-ending. The box was probably fine; she’d bought them yesterday.

She slid further into the lounger and took a gulp of wine. Resting her head back, she inclined her face to the sun, peace playing with her thoughts and quietening her soul. She raised her glass and took another sip, to thine own self be true.

A light breeze nudged her. She wasn’t afraid to call him but she didn’t want to hurt him. Loose leaves whirled in chaos and descended like lost confetti as a more powerful wind swirled in from the east and unsettled the status quo. Empty plant pots tipped over and before she could catch hold of it, the cardboard cherry box was up and over the fence at the bottom of the garden. Damn.

She downed her glass, re-filled it and called him.

“Move aside Molly!” Henry said.

“Dad, you said you were going to bury your face in the fruit and veg at the supermarket, touch anyone you could get your hands on and lick a wall if you had to. I’m coming with you.”

“For goodness sake,” Henry pulled his jacket off the hanger which hung on the doorknob of the cloakroom cupboard.

“I just want some quiet time, on my own.”

“Dad, this virus is serious, fatal even-”

“Exactly and I’m done.”

“There you go again, a bloody death wish. I’m coming with you.”

Henry struggled to get his arms into the jacket and stood there, stuck, sweating, looking at Molly, one arm in and one arm out, “God strewth, you were always so headstrong.”

Molly stepped forward to help him, but Henry flashed her a look that she knew well.

“I want to visit her too, Dad. It is her anniversary.”

“Bleeding Nora, d’you think I’m too senile to know that?”

“Dad…”

Henry grappled with the other sleeve and inched his arm down towards the cuff until he could see his hand pop out.

“You look nice Dad.”

“This was her favourite jacket.”

“I remember.”

“She loved corduroy,” he said, brushing the sleeves down, ‘But I’m not wearing a mask. I can’t breathe with that darn thing on.’

“I’ll sit on the bench by the church and you can pay your respects first. How about that?”

“I say bollocks to that.”

It wasn’t far and Henry took his time, slow and gentle, arm in arm with Molly. He paused at the roundabout, just before the church and leaned heavily upon an iron railing.

There was a couple of teenagers on a grass verge, right next to them, with their masks at their chins, talking urgently. He wished he could be urgent again with his wife. He missed the theatrics and it looked like it was heating up.

The girl stood up, her face swollen with the drama; restless, unsure, intense. Henry was riveted, watching, as the boy grabbed her arm as she tried to leave,

“Izzy, we’ll sort it, I’ll come with you,” he cried after her as she took off all arms and legs. Henry looked away, the passion between them was undeniable.

Molly tugged on his arm and he let her lead him to the church grounds and through the gate. Struggling on the uneven cobble stones, he shuffled away from her, taking the cushion she gave him for his knees and stepped onto the grass.

“Afternoon my love, it’s been a while,” he said and knelt at his wife’s grave, and slouched forward, wiping the back of his hand over his wet eyes. He bit his knuckles, shook his head and sniffed. “Be there in a jiffy.”

Hobbling to his feet he kissed the tip off his fingers and then touched his wife’s headstone.

A cardboard punnet at the side of her headstone blew back and forth, as if unsure which way to go. Henry watched it, thinking of the to and fro of the teenagers. The wind circled it and slung it this way and that and then, with an extra puff, snatched it up and swept it up towards Henry whose frail arms caught it. He turned his back to the church, and to Molly on the bench, and sniffed the box. Strawberries? No, more like cherries. Fairly fresh too. He placed it over his face, like a mask and inhaled. He moved his head from side to side until he had smothered himself with its cardboard waste, and just for luck, he licked it.

The 11th Hour

Wed, 06 Jan 2021 12:00:00 Z

High from the joint he’d had that morning, Noah pushed the door into the second hand shop of 11 Sorcerer Lane, to the sound of a click and a ding-a-ling. He tripped on the few steps down into a small area packed tight with musty goodies. He hadn’t been there before but as John Lennon said, “Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.” Just in front of him was a Gothic arch with steps down. Down appealed, the dingier the better. His tall scrawny frame crumpled, adjusting to the steep and narrow steps. Eleven in total.

The dark basement was greedy in its hoard of eclectic stash. In particular, he was drawn to multiple paintings, in different sizes, of the same Asian God reclining on a mouldy wall. The god looked more Chinese than Indian to his ignorant eye.

A thin wispy line of smoke from a half open black door in the far corner, weaved its way around the den, dancing to the faint Asian music which played.

“Come, come.”

Noah jumped and checked his pocket to see if he had smoked two joints that morning or just one.

“Come. Sit,” a whisper said. Behind the black door a tiny Asian man with thick grey hair squatted behind a bamboo mat. A red dragon china teapot lay upon it, with a matching cup, a red candle and an incense holder with a burning stick.

“Sit.”

“Er…” Noah blushed, “I…”

“Time for Tea,” said the old man.

“Tea?”

“11 o’clock. Tea-leaf reading,” the old man said

“Reading?”

“Fortune tell.”

Noah sniggered.

The old man motioned for him to sit and poured tea into the delicate cup, “dink.”

Noah smirked.

“You lucky. Time choose you.”

Noah took the cup; wasting time drinking tea was fine by him. He swilled the tea and put his nose to its brim. He inhaled a waft of green tea bitterness, entwined with a hint of rose or jasmine or what? He didn’t know but it was flowery and he downed it, its taste sweeter than expected. The old man tilted the cup left, then right and rotated it clockwise.

“You, decision?” he said.

Noah shrugged.

“Wrong decision. You regret.” Noah frowned.

“Know decision?” the old man said.

“No.”

“Know? Good.”

“No. Like, NO!” Noah shook his head, slow and precise, using the age old remedy of resorting to exaggerated gestures to assist in times of misunderstandings.

The old man poured more tea in the cup, swilled it, “dink.”

Once again, he rotated the cup. “Decision tomorrow. 11 o’clock.”

Noah laughed, “I don’t do decisions,” and said. “I smoke, play guitar, while away the time.”

“You go out. 11 o’clock you out.”

“Out?”

The old man opened his arms out wide. “Anywhere, where no matter.”

The air was thick with incense and Noah’s eyes watered as he listened to the old man continue. “Want see result of decision?”

He retrieved an old, half empty bottle of snake wine from a glass cabinet, “Rice wine. Magic,” he said. “Left hand.”

He tipped a drop onto the palm of Noah’s left hand, rubbed it in and then mixed a shot in the tea leaves and said “Dink. Close eyes,” and blew out the candle.

“Look hand,”

“I can’t see anything, it’s dark,” Noah said,

“Look”

Noah stared at his hand “It’s fuzzy and -”

Three images appeared, one by one. An old barn surrounded by fields. A double bed on top of which lay an indistinguishable girl on her side, his guitar, scribbled song lyrics, and a recording contract. Last, a ginger cat, half hidden under a pink silk scarf, spooned around a trophy.

“That’s one decision. Right hand.”

“I don’t know what it meant,” Noah said

The old man repeated the ritual with Noah’s right hand. This time, one after another, Noah saw; his name on an official list. A government building and his studio flat without furniture in darkness.

“Reading finish.”

“But-”

“One decision you regret.”

“But how-”

“You feel.” The old man pressed his hand upon his heart.

Noah didn’t remember saying goodbye or leaving the shop as he walked the five minutes it took to get home, woozy from the rice wine, musky incense and aromatic tea. He slouched on his unmade bed and lit a half smoked joint and polished it off. He was holding the business card of the shop, ‘11th Hour’ but he didn’t remember taking it. On the back, written in the old man’s scrawl was, ‘11 o’clock out decision regret.’ One couldn’t accuse him of being verbose, he thought.

Noah awoke at five to eleven the next day. Groggy, he looked for his weed but the first thing he saw was the card. He looked at his watch and a rave of butterflies on speed churned in his stomach. It didn’t matter he told himself, it didn’t, but he jumped up. He had been given direction; given a purpose. He had purpose, he told himself, he was free, so why did having somewhere to be feel good?

He hadn’t undressed the night before so he was quick. He pulled his fingers through this hair, shoved his shoes on, grabbed his jacket, stuffed a chewing gum in his mouth and flew out the door.

On the top step, right outside his studio, he bumped into a young woman, “Hi, do you live here?”

“That’s me,” he said pointing to the door behind him,

“Sorry to disturb, but I’ve lost my cat,” she said,

“Haven’t seen him,” said Noah and leapt down the stairs.

He was out. He didn’t know whether to stay where he was or walk somewhere. In theory he was out. He crossed the grey street to the town square and checked the time, 11.03am. Typical, he wasn’t good at showing up. He slumped, round shouldered on a bench and spat out the gum. He fiddled in his jacket pocket for his lighter and lit a crumpled fag. This is why he never did anything; he wasn’t a player. He pulled hard on the fag, a deep intake of guilt; guilt that only the privileged can feel. He didn’t have a terrible tale to tell. He just couldn’t do it; the drudgery. He broke bonds with disappointed others. Their judgement hard to bear, questioning his choice to live off benefits and play music. The drudgery messed with his wasted time. Wasted time made his music.

He inhaled sharply and noticed a little girl, about six years old, crying. She started to flap her arms about and then abruptly cried out, “Mummy!” He flicked his fag on the ground and moseyed over to her, kneeling down to her level.

“Have you lost your mum?”

Panting in desperate, miniature breaths she nodded with a sweetness that broke him. He held out his right hand to her, and said, “Let’s find her.”

They hadn’t gone far when a woman, laden down with shopping came running towards them. As she got closer Noah’s chest tightened; her expression was inhuman in its ferocity.

“Mummy!” cried the girl. In an instant Noah had the most peculiar feeling. He snatched his hand away from the little girl’s, and looked at his burning palm and clenched his teeth. The result of the decision he’d had a glimpse of with the old man played out. The government building was a police station; he was held for six hours and put on a potential offenders list. His dealer appeared with something new. The vision faded with him unconscious with a needle next to him on the floor of his empty studio. This would be his regret.

He ducked and ran. His chest tightened, squeezed by a public constrictor. He gasped, flailing, prey to societies injustices. He shot up the stairs to his studio, unaware he was counting them as he went, and landed on the last step, the eleventh. Panting, it suddenly came to him. His exchange with the girl who’d lost her cat had been at 11.00am on the dot. On the eleventh step! Eleven’s everywhere. Signs everywhere! He should have helped her look for her cat. He tumbled back down the stairs to the floor below. There were two flats, eleven and twelve. He knocked on the door of flat eleven. He knocked louder, called out, and banged. The door to flat twelve opened.

“You looking for Harry?” the girl said.

“Dunno, she was looking for her cat this morning? I live upstairs and -”

“Oh was she?” she said.

“Did she find her cat?” Noah said,

“I expect so. Blackie’s a little minx.”

Noah nodded, “Right.”

“Did you say you live upstairs?”

“Yep, number 14.”

“You’re above me then.” She opened the door a little more and leaned on one leg and untied the pink scarf from around her head. “Do you play the guitar?”

“Yep. Can you tell her I’m sorry about this morning?”

“Sure,” she said, twiddling with her hair, “I hope you don’t mind me saying but I love listening to you play. Do you write your own songs?”

“Er…” Noah drummed his hand on the side of his leg. “Yep,” he coughed, “I mean, yes, yes, I do.”

She smiled and Noah smiled back and nodded. He wasn’t sure whose turn it was to speak so he blurted, “Er… Can you tell her I was looking for her?”

“Yeh, sure,” A ginger cat slid up to the girl and rubbed against her leg, “Aw, you hungry?” she said and closed the door with a warm smile. “Bye.”

Noah, stood in front of his studio door frowning, chasing a thought he hadn’t yet had. Then it hit him. “Idiot!” He smacked the palm of his hand on his forehead. “Such an idiot!”

The feeling came, clear as the lyrics of his next song. He looked at his left palm and the vision bloomed. They fell in love, he cleaned up and they moved to the country. He wrote songs, recorded an album and they lived an extraordinary life of love and dreams fulfilled. His first hit was called “The 11 o’clock decision.”

As the vision ended he fell to sitting on the top step. Wide eyed, a cheeky grin, curved up to light his once deadened eyes. He didn’t dare to question the truth of the old man’s sorcery but just bathed, for a second, in its hope. His thoughts turned to the girl at number twelve. He opened his door, grabbed his guitar and descended down the stairs.

Postcards

Wed, 02 Dec 2020 12:00:00 Z

I scratched my head and blinked my left eye. I was changing the bin, as usual, on my morning round on Mortimer street. I yanked off my large orange jacket and tossed it over my dustbin trolley. This was the bin the old lady had been dumping the postcards. I’d retrieved three postcards so far. I’d read them a couple of times and they didn’t say much but I knew she was lying. It was as bad as not writing at all.

I got in there, nice and close and stirred the rubbish around but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I’d seen her bin them on three separate occasions; one each time. I’m sure she’d meant to put them in the post-box next to it. She had a thin long stick which she scrapped from side to side with her old spindly arm and wore large black sunglasses. If she took the glasses off she may be able to see. She was as thin as her stick and so bent over she may as well be crawling.

I dropped off my trolley at the local council and passed the box with ‘valuables’ written on it. I’d found lots of things in the bins over the years, mostly junk. Watches, phones, wallets; some with money in which I’d spent but it wasn’t like I’d won the lottery. I didn’t hand the crap in. I didn’t care. Crap everywhere. Un-get-ridable waste. Only the living decomposed but they still lingered on after death; tormenting. There had been a torn up love letter which I’d stuck back together with cello-tape which I’d found after Mum had died. I’d had nothing better to do. It hadn’t been worth it; I didn’t know anything of love. I threw that too in the end but written things mattered. Writing was alive, lived on after it had been written, whether the author was dead or not.

I headed home when I saw Rick, who had lived next door to me years ago, but he didn’t return my nod. We’d been best mates as kids.

The next day, I was finishing my round when I saw the decrepit old bat drop another postcard in the bin. The forth. She was so slow I wasn’t sure she was moving. So stiff, if she turned her head too far it may just get stuck and fall off, clattering and clunking like the metallic ghosts of a junk-yard. She took forever; the stank of senile old bones and unwashed grime leaving a trail. I waited for her to go, pocketed the postcard and changed the bin bag.

I dawdled home, scuffing my boots with a large heavy foot to Mum’s small dilapidated terraced house on Lower Street. I couldn’t afford to do much with it but I’d scrubbed it some, leaving a mixed odour of lemon and rancid squalor behind. Lots was sold and I cleared piles of rotten things, dead things. Her waste had been the most sickening. I hadn’t been the one to bag her up. That, for once, was someone else’s responsibility but they hadn’t disposed of the rug. That was mine. It would be better once I got rid of the rug. It’d been years. Damn rotten rug.

The fourth postcard was more lies. Like the others, she had signed it Mum and addressed it to Hattie Lee. I’d known a Hattie once. The address was in Berlin. I’d never dreamt of travelling. I laid them out on the table. They read;

“I’m fine,” I retched and slumped onto the chair. I closed my eyes and thumped the table but it didn’t help. “Fine”, that word! I scratched my head and blinked my left eye and then swallowed and read the other cards,

“Don’t worry I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

“I finished the elderly marathon on Saturday!”

“I’m feeling better than I have in years.”

Stupid lying old cow.

I got up to make tea and tripped on the blood stained rug. Damn rug! Damn fucking rug! I kicked it hard and kicked and kicked it. I stamped on it, thumped it, threw it, and finally stared at it holding my breath. Deformed and twisted, its coarse edge pointed up, prominent like a mountain, rigid like a hardened heart, in the centre of the room.

I rubbed hard at the stubble on my chin. I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to expose that blind old witch. I grabbed a red marker pen from the drawer in the kitchen and held it above the cards. I had to kill this lie. Kill it dead. Words have life. I struck a big red cross over her words on each card. I hovered, clasping the red pen like a dagger, still, like the lifeless stiff misshapen rug. Four cards, one line. I wrote “SHE’S LYING” in capitals on each of them and snatched them up, clutched my keys and left the house to post them.

I scampered back and collapsed, gasping at the front door. My hands shook as I fought with the lock. In. I headed straight for the red pen and then the rug. I fell on my knees, threw it flat and scrapped a big cross. I went over and over the two diagonal lines until the ink was dry and my knees hurt. Struggling up, I gave it one final kick.

A week passed. The rug was still there. The cross less red; in fitting with the old stain of my mother’s blood. I’d spilt pizza on it and hadn’t bothered to clean it up. I’d dropped a half-eaten apple on it and left it to rot. I was on edge since I’d sent the cards. I’d revealed the truth.

Back on Mortimer street, I realised I hadn’t seen the old lady since the forth postcard and since I’d sent them. She’s probably done for. But she couldn’t take her lies with her. I’d made sure of that. I wanted to get drunk.

I sat alone in the corner of the stale dank pub, with my third pint and couldn’t think why I didn’t drink more often. Sunken on the rickety chair, I dazed off a little. I needed to get rid of the rug.

I finished my pint, got up and bumped into the man next to me. I put my hand up in apology, and stumbled over to the door. A sullen group, all wearing black, pushed passed as I lent on the wall and held the door open. A woman, lagging behind, bumped into me as I finally shuffled out.

“James?”

“huh?”

“James, isn’t it?”

I fiddled with a loose button at the bottom of my scruffy coat.

“It’s Hattie. We went to school together.”

“Hattie,” I said.

“I’m back for my mum’s funeral.”

“Oh.”

“I got back, just in time, and spent a few days with her.”

“Oh,” the button came off.

“It’s a weird story actually.”

“Hmm,” I didn’t know what to do with the button.

“I got these postcards.”

I scratched my head and blinked my left eye.

“Anyway, it’s a long story.”

I rolled the button between my fingers.

“Do you want to come in for a drink? It’s on me. We want to celebrate her life.”

I coughed, “Off home.”

“Oh that’s a shame.”

I shoved the button in my pocket.

“I heard about your mum too. It was a while ago, wasn’t it?”

I crouched down to tie my bootlace.

“Ten years ago? I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry.”

I changed foot and re-tied the other lace.

“I heard she didn’t leave a note.”

I put my hand against the wall and edged my way up, “Gotta go.”

“Oh,OK. I’m here for a while. Maybe I can pop in for a glass or two?”

I tried a smile but I couldn’t remember how to. “Or a cuppa? Are you still at the same address?”

“Er,” I paused, and looked at her for the first time, “53 Lower Street.”

“Got it. Well, until then then.”

I watched her walk inside, “Hattie?”

“Yes?”

“A note, it would’ve…words would’ve helped; some life to them, given me something to..to..”

She smiled and put her hand on my arm.

“She said she was fine...” I said.

“but she wasn’t.”

“No, she wasn’t,” I mumbled.

She nodded, “The postcards, all rather odd actually, but they changed everything.”

“Words matter,” I said,

“Very much. I wish I knew who’d sent them.”

We stood in silence apart from the sound of the dull indistinct natter from inside the pub. I pulled my coat around me, the steady gaze from Hattie penetrating its fold. Stuck to the spot, I faltered and stepped forward,

“I’m off then,” and took another step away from her. She moved swiftly in, and without warning she gave me the warmest, tightest hug I’d had in years.

“See you soon,” she said and entered the pub.

It was a clear night and the dense heavy clouds had been drawn back, a final curtain call, and exposed the bright stars. I had to get home and bin the rug.

Binoculars

Wed, 04 Nov 2020 12:00:00 Z

A couple live in a beautiful, peaceful village by the sea. They take a brisk early-evening walk and climb up high onto their hill overlooking their waters. The lady takes out her binoculars, a birthday gift. She is excited to try them. A new experience; a new insight.

She thinks she sees something foreign in the boisterous waves. Unable to focus the binoculars clearly she adjusts the view. A moving object, a thrashing shape, an intensity of sorts is observed. She puts her hand over her mouth smothering her sharp intake of breath and passes her binoculars to her husband. He fiddles with them but they are still blurred, his perception too is shrouded.

“It’s nothing. Stop imagining things,” he says.

Other walkers, enjoying the countryside, join them and soon there is a small crowd of locals high on their hill. There are how do you do?’s, chitter chatter, and sharing of home-baked cake. A man drinks tea from his thermos flask as they take turns looking into the binoculars. What they see is unknown.

“It’s a monster,” someone says. The others laugh.

The lady thinks she hears gargled, gasping cries. Sickened, she retrieves her binoculars and looks again. The monster is wild, untamed but still indistinct. Its solid form is breaking up, bits fall off it and splash sporadically alone. She begs her husband to look but he just shakes his head and his steady hands calm her. Someone else takes the binoculars and reports that the monster is dangerous. A man suggests it could just be the unsettled chopping of the seas.

The wind is up and the crowd is battered, yet they are grounded in their stance. A grieving shrill pierces their hill but it’s watered down, drowned out by the landscape. Yet it is heard, by them, those locals, before it’s quietened. The crowd is restless; the slapping wind does not enlighten their bruised white skin and cheeks rubbed red. Anxious pained frowns show struggle. Some twitch and turn their backs.

The lady turns her gaze to the other side of their hill, across the green, lush countryside towards their village. She’s confused and wonders if it’s the anti-depressants that have made her delusional. She thinks of her luxurious home, full of nostalgia and of her happy grown up children. A pregnant woman stands beside her and cradles her belly. Her husband puts his arm around her. They are lost in their dreams. An elderly man wraps a scarf around his neck. It’s getting cold. More of them look towards their village, their home, their community.

A few still look out to sea but its darkened, obscure and hostile. This time, the lady is sure she hears pain filled cries. She looks from one person to another, no one reacts. Her husband tucks the binoculars in his pocket, they are only small. The crowd take steps backwards away from the edge of the hill. They are too close for comfort. The lady follows their lead.

Lights flicker on in their village. The view is very pretty, high up, where they are. Manicured gardens with neat borders abound. Grand houses and charming cottages settled in perfect arrangement. The warmth of their homes are calling. They worry about getting down from the hill as nighttime is upon them. Hands are held as they help one another with generous spirit.

A father picks up his toddler and squeezes her tight. He, like the crowd, like the lady, traces his steps back towards their village but his toddler keeps pointing at the sea. There is still something there, it’s more broken than before, scattered pieces everywhere. Its movements are less dramatic and there are parts, bobbing up, reaching and then disappearing, like dying swans of synchronized nightmares. The toddler babbles noisily. Her father tickles her. She laughs and is distracted.

The crowd, a closed huddle, sheltered by layers of thick wool, move quietly, tense, back along the well-trodden, most traveled path. United in their private thoughts, wed in their separate dreams and cushioned by their rights, they are soothed. They want to get home. They love their village. They love their lives.

There are goodbyes, take care’s, and see you soon’s as the crowd splits and disbands.

The lady’s husband unlatches the gate into their luscious garden and she bears the familiar squeak as it opens. She closes the gate behind her and grips its iron bars, looking out. Her breathing is irregular; she gasps in the suffocating air. Something terrible just happened. She asks him if he has her binoculars and he nods.

The sea is strong and the severed monster has weakened. Heard, but ignored, seen but unacknowledged, drowned.

No longer a threat.