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The Modern Music
Have you ever met young Roy?
He is a most engaging boy:
Polite, collected, and, you'd say
A model child in every way.
This self-assurance, charm and poise
Are all a front, for he annoys
His parents, teachers, and his friends,
Provoking them to violence.
Now, Roy has one consuming passion,
Baked-beans on toast: as is his fashion
He'll have them every meal, each day,
Whenever he can get his way.
On just one day are beans taboo,
The reason why, our hero knew:
He sings first treble in the choir:
You mix the two, and play with fire.
In all the Rector's long career
He'd never known a voice so clear:
Nor one so pure, but yet, so rich,
And with the gift of perfect pitch.
He seems a paragon indeed,
With such a voice - and he can read:
There is a fly, though, in the ointment,
His antics are a disappointment.
That is, he only draws the line
At some distinction very fine,
Between a prank and actual wrong:
A dodgy path to walk along.
Perhaps the boy might be redeemed?
It was of this the Rector dreamed.
His motives were the saintliest -
His judgement though, was not the best.
Despite the bean-ban, naughty lad,
Just for the sake of being bad
He'll scoff cold beans down in his shed
On slices of untoasted bread.
Choir-practice on one Friday night
Had filled his soul with rare delight:
He was the treble solo, and,
He had his own mike on a stand!
But do you guess the full import
That lies behind his joyful thought?
Evensong on Radio 3
Was live from there on Wednesday, see?
And for that day he had a plan:
He'd eaten more than just one can
Or two, or even three, of beans -
You all know, don't you, what that means?
Long practice had informed him when
Results were to be expected, then,
He found his timing had been nice.
(Not meaning pleasant, but, precise.)
Roy felt a stirring deep within,
And let it brew, with wicked grin:
A lure which he could not resist -
That line, that rest, must not be missed!
'Twas as the counter-tenor started
"Sound the trumpet!" that Roy farted:
He timed it perfectly, the pest,
Bottom C, in that bar's rest.
The note was clear and long and loud:
It would have made a foghorn proud,
But Roy was instantly aghast:
He hadn't banked on one so vast.
The organist leapt from his seat
And missed a bar and half a beat,
And when he landed, traumatised,
He sat there shocked, and improvised.
The choristers all tried in vain
To pick the anthem up again
With perfect fifths, demented thirds,
And, still confused, made up the words.
And as the echoes shook the walls,
Gales of laughter swept the stalls.
The Curate choked, the Rector glared,
The Verger prayed he might be spared.
It fairly ruined Evensong:
Not just the noise, but OH! The pong!
Titters swept the congregation,
Then came gasps of consternation.
Trying hard to look aloof,
Sculpted saints stared stern reproof:
Reverberating down the nave
The echoes sounded, wave on wave.
They shook the glass and rattled tiles,
Harmonics issued from the aisles:
Nodes and antinodes uncouth
Frolicked round the vaulted roof.
And after that, there was the power
To rouse the Tenor in the tower:
A note in sympathy was sounded
As shockwaves struck it, and rebounded.
As the awesome note decayed,
Some elements began to fade:
The longer wavelengths though, survived,
As canons, ever-deepening, dived.
It was a tribute to Roy's craft,
Each time he let one drop, he laughed;
Each time he laughed, he let one drop -
The trouble was, he couldn't stop.
Asked Granny Smith, who could scarce hear,
"Is this the modern music, Dear?"
And Grandpa, with some insight mused:
"It ranks beside the incense used!"
And when at last the tumult died,
All those on modern music's side
Began to clap, and sway, and sing,
And made the church with clichés ring.
The cognoiscenti switched at tea,
To Choral Evensong, on 3,
And listened with deep gravity
To juvenile depravity.
And in the Halls of Academe
Professors, Doctors, it would seem
Abandoned work on weighty pieces,
To write instead, a load of theses.
Meanwhile at Aunty BBC,
Not a single line was free:
Gigawatts of specious rot
Turned the switchboard's wires red-hot.
On 'Feedback' and on 'Points of View'
Controversy raged, and grew,
And then the ferment filled the Press
With plaudits, and with deep distress.
The rapturous music critics though,
Wrote reams of learned tripe, to show
Their depth of knowledge, insight, flair,
And raised to Art this sad affair.
And now St. Giles is famous, for,
Towards the ever-open door
Troop trendy clerics by the score,
And Modern Music buffs galore. |
Tony Besley ~ 
Now You See It - Now You Don't
He walked across a moment in her life
Engulfing her inner core to a depth she thought unreachable
Bringing to her a vision she had never seen... only dreamed of
An illusion blossomed - opening wide to its fullest measure
Then in an instant, as suddenly as the second in time of her soul's
Flight upon their first "connection"
The artist who tenderly painted his landscape
Upon her heart... vanished
His departure came not with fond farewells dressed in sweet wishes,
Rather, with a language that silently spoke of his inclination
To erase his painting
He had touched her with his presence
As when the ocean waves kiss the shore
Then quickly fall away
Unable to keep her soaring spirit on the floor
Like the poet who is forever a dreamer
She caressed the artist's images of beauty
Remembering not that images are just that...
The essence of imagination
Even the greatest masterpiece is only a picture of what is real
Anne Bryant-Harmon ~
South Facing Slopes
This is not a vintage year
We ferment
Memories like bruises settle,
sediment of the soul.
Some wait,
collect dust in their rack,
lamenting their choices, what they have been.
they breathe without goal.
Some hate,
pour out their souls
until they are left half empty.
We uncork our tears,
anxious and fearful,
while others exhale their grief
suffocate, bitter,
toast another victim in life's cellar
for this is not a vintage year.
Jim Elwen ~
Untitled #3
The strength of my will to live,
Grows and shrinks,
In direct proportion with,
My will to remain sane.
For what's the point of sanity,
When hell's as bent on you,
As you are on it?
And so forth.
I grasp out of my shell,
Into your skull,
Collecting sanity,
In a wrinkled handbag.
My spirit gushes forth, drunken,
The dam of myself broken,
By your fending off sanity,
My five fingers.
What is insanity?
I ask you now.
Why are the bugs,
Crawling up your face,
And onto your toe?
Cutting and piercing.
Shriek louder my dear,
The deaf man is your only hope.
Jacob Komisar ~
The North Point
Where the road ends, beyond
the sand dunes, under
the low swells of the Atlantic,
seaweed
hangs
in the window of a house
yellowtail fish
hover
near a closet.
Still there, twice buried
a boy's tin box of treasures -
a pen knife, gum foil ball
an old marine emblem.
And high above it all,
my uncle moves down
the boardwalk,
seeing
the line of squat buoys
that marks the north point
of Tybee Island
drowned
by the tides long years back,
with the only map
to those sunken streets,
the age spots drawn
on his parchment face.
Neca Stoller ~
Poem 3
stillness
silent violin
silent piano
only
her essence caught
in the spider's web
entangled
an echo of music
in a shadow of the candle
flickering
Mark Hart ~
Flying While Intoxicated (FWI)
Right here in our town, a witch we found,
who would have done better on the ground.
Late at night she met her doom,
as she was flying on her broom.
It was apparent that night before she flew,
she had been nipping at the witches brew.
She should have known, being FWI,
she shouldn't have picked that night to fly.
It was during the middle of her flight,
that a telephone pole came into sight.
I don't believe that it was her goal,
to become a part of that telephone pole.
She hit that pole with a great big splat,
now she's feeling just a little flat.
That night there were no friendly skies,
that pole caught her right between the eyes.
If that happens every time those witches fly,
maybe we should ground them from the sky.
Since around that pole, she remains wrapped,
by her nasty spells we won't be zapped.
It was west on the street that's name is Center,
where she became one great big splinter.
Jim Garman ~
|
Name's Bertha, Bertha deBlues as blue as ole Widow Hank's eyes. They got stars in 'em, those eyes. Better watch out. The stars will speak to ya. Beckon to ya. Ask ya to leap. 'Fore ya know it, you're involved with 'em eyes. Almost hitched. Ole Widow Hank who likes to be
called Hank kase she's nobody Mrs., knows what's up, and will let ya down easy just your dumb luck, huh?
"No harm meant chile, I'm just messing with ya."
Told me once, though, she'll use 'em eyes to trap de ShiverMan. She'll use any trick in the book to get that big ole creep.
ShiverMan!
Ah me. I'm besotted by 'im. Never know when he's coming, but I knows when he's here. My body sizzles. I hear the hum and the crackle. I whine. I'm a madwoman, a thing possessed. Don't need no coffee with de ole ShiverMan. He keeps me hopping, zoom, zoom, zoom. I move so fast when I shiver. I crawl de walls like a super broad, who messes with the lowlifes in the streets of New York, and stops bank robberies with the touch of her hand. Beware de Shiverwoman or ya'll shiver like a banjo wire, ka-pow!
De ShiverMan expects too much. When I feel the touch of de ShiverMan I could kick my desk into a thousand splinters, chop the boss into a thousand planks, stack 'em neatly, walk out of this hell hole and not come back. De ole ShiverMan is trying to tell me sumpin. Not much of a secret. I need a new life. ShiverMan!
Ole Widow Hank, who dressed like a man and made spitting a sport in my ole hometown, fought de ShiverMan. Ole Widow Hank would look ya straight in the eye while spitting the tobacco juice close to your foot. If ya dared flinch or jump, she'd aim at your big toe next time.
At night, folks would hang a horseshoe at the bed's head and pour a cup of turnip seeds on the doorstep and hearth so that Hank would have to count all 'em seeds, 'fore she sneaked into the house to get 'em. They hoped she'd get tired, change her mind, go home.
Hank always chuckled when she heard that story but never did anything to set things straight -- she liked that folks thought she could jump out of her skin whenever she had a mind to. And what would she become, you might wonder. An owl. A black dog. A cat. Mebbe even a horse. Funny what folks come up with. They also swore, up, down, sideways, may lightning strike if they're telling it false, that Hank could appear in two places at once. When I asked Hank why she didn't care such yarns were spun at her expense, she'd grin -- a couple of her front teeth blackened by tobacco juice -- and told me how if ya battle evil, sometimes ya can't he'p taking on some of his traits. Not everything 'bout the ShiverMan was bad, 'sides, she kinda liked the mischief. Let
folks think what they want. She thought it was funny.
De ShiverMan is a petty tyrant. A slave driver. Put your nose to the grindstone. 'Fore ya know it, ya got a new nose. And in the dusty attic of your mind ya 'member being satisfied with the one ya had.
No one should cross de ShiverMan. Can't image anyone wanting to go into partnership with the big ole creep, 'cept that he does make life exciting. As predictable as a dog with fleas gone mad. Honey, he stimulates your mind, makes ya want to try new things. One thing de ShiverMan doesn't like is a rut. Even if ya feel like a drowsy ole hen, comfortable and secure, ShiverMan will make ya bored. 'Fore ya know, it, ka-flooey, and all life's uncertain. Ya feel as settled as a wet cat.
Ole spitting Hank didn't trust de ShiverMan, swore to beat 'im at his own game. During her days she walked up and down the highway looking for animals hit by steel monsters. The ones who died she buried, offering a prayer to Sister Moon and a curse to de ShiverMan who made 'em animals
too curious in the first place. The animals still breathing she'd carry back to her house, where she fixed their wounds. She liked critters, that's for sure. One day she found a fool in the front yard, right outside her door, kicking one of the dogs -- told 'im to stop it, twice, got her gun, asked again, than shot 'im in the foot. Tobacco juice and spit ain't gonna fix it this time. Then, she told 'im to go down to Mr. Chester's You Break It, We Fix It Shop, right behind the 5 & Dime.
"Ya tell 'im who sent ya, and why," she said, and the man meekly hobbled off. Did as he was told. Ya only mess with Hank once; and ya NEVER never touched her critters. As much as she liked to he'p folks, some things were just law. Hers.
Hank didn't mind my company, mebbe kase of my grandma, or mebbe kase I didn't give her no trouble. Well, there was that one time, but Hank got me back good. T'was the mischief in her, or as she liked to put it, de ShiverMan was showing. Anywho...
Sometimes folks got mixed up, was Hank a she or he, being that she always wore those patched jeans and a different plaid shirt each day. Ya know those shirts -- ya s'pect a lumberjack to wear 'im, not a woman. Hank's salt and pepper hair, cut close to the scalp, was no he'p either.
Plus, did I mention she liked to spit and chew the tobacco? But the thing that made ya scratch your head, and count your toes one more time, was Hank had no chest. I ain't lying about this. One day I just asked. Ma likes to say I'm all mouth and no sense.
"Hank ain't ya got breasts?"
Hank grinned and spat at my toes. Muttering "is she, or isn't she, only Sister Moon knows and she ain't telling," she unbuttoned her shirt -- it was a green and black plaid shirt that day -- showing the long scar where her breasts shoulda been, Goddess have mercy.
"What happen," I gasped. Slowly rebuttoning her shirt Hank explained that fighting de ShiverMan was tough on a body. Sometimes ya get shot. Was one of the few times I didn't see Hank smile.
"Beating de ShiverMan sometimes needs a sacrifice," she said. "Serious bizness."
Another time I asked Hank why she dressed like a man. She grinned. "I like it," she replied.
"Do ya do it to mess with folks?" Sometimes I don't know when to quit.
Hank laughed, spat, missed me by a mile. I was grateful.
"Not always," she grunted. "Sometimes ya need to keep de ShiverMan on his toes."
I couldn't get her to say anymore on the subject; but, she did tell me once that that was why she painted her house blue like the night sky, with silver stars & Sister Moon. She even put Ole Man Sun in the picture! When I asked her why she just looked at her home, and spat.
"Gotta keep de ShiverMan on his toes."
Wasn't like Hank and I were kin, but for some reason only Sister Moon and de ShiverMan knew, I was the only person in town who wasn't scared of her. As much as Hank liked to mess with people's minds, I s'pect she also needed company. Duking it out with de ShiverMan can be
lonely work; and ain't it true we all need a pat on the back, at least now and than. Hank didn't have much of that. I liked listening to her yarns, which made Hank amenable to spinning. Reckon we all have a story or two to tell.
Can't open the door to some of the stuff she told me, a promise is a promise. Hank would come back from the dead to spit on my toes. 'Sides, I understand why she swore me to secrecy. If too many people spin this yarn the wool will get too dang thin. Make it easier for de ShiverMan to snip it, with one snap. If he does, the fight's over. The Shadow will have won. What I can tell ya, though, is what folks think ain't far from the truth, 'cept Hank didn't have a mean bone in her body. Each night she'd stir the embers in her hearth, putting on a few more
logs. Soon as she has a fire going, she settles back. Watches, waits, to see what the fire reveals. Just call Hank the town bulldog who sees her neighbors in the flames in the hearth. And if she sees de ShiverMan lurking in the bushes near any of 'em, Hank sends out a thought or two to dissuade 'im. Send 'im packing. Get the heck out of Dodge, ShiverMan, let these good folks be.
Hank explained it to me once -- she sees de ShiverMan as a shadow. He sticks to folks like glue. It ain't a person's own shadow. Sumpin more.
"Your Ma's been resisting de ShiverMan since she got born." Hank spat in the fire, making the red & orange flames rise. "Only she don't know it. That's what makes her run-a-way from home now and than. That's what makes her lose her mind and beat on YOU, Bertha, instead of talking
sensible and nice." Hank looked at me and spat in the fire again.
"I can't fight de ShiverMan alone," she continued, almost as if nothing had happen. "Sometimes folks enjoy his company too dang much." Her laughter was the crackling of the fire. "But I can make 'im mind!"
I'll always 'member Hank for that, now and then whispering a thank ya to Sister Moon, trusting the message gets to Hank, somehow. Just knowing Ma was doing the tango with de ShiverMan made things better. He'ps when ya understand what makes people lose their minds.
Hear tell de ShiverMan was once called the "imp of the perverse." (*)
I like that. Imp of the perverse makes ya wanna do what ya know ya ought not to do. Take Bobby Blacksheep, have ya any wool, yes ma'am, no ma'am, doing 5 in the state pen. His parents had so many children they didn't know what to do, so one day Bobby Blacksheep up and robbed the 5 & Dime. From what I hear, he drew up blue prints, created charts, went into the 5 & Dime each day, for a month. Poor Mr. Chester treats townfolk like kin, would never think anyone was out to cheat 'im. One day, when Mr. C wasn't looking, went in the backroom for supplies, I reckon, Bobby Blacksheep he'ped himself to some cash. Woulda gotten away with it too. Mr. Chester woulda thought he had added wrong at the end of the month, and that would be that; but, Bobby Blacksheep turned himself in, became his own sheriff, giddyup little yipyaps! Bobby still don't know why, his theft was perfect; but sumpin pushed 'im to the police station. He stumbled. Inside his mind he screamed NO! And confessed to the crime, anywho.
Only thing we can figure is de ole ShiverMan musta been playing 'im like a puppet. Jerk 'em strings, ShiverMan, ya big ole creep.
Some folks call de ShiverMan de Boogieman and that's a side of 'im ya don't want to meet -- monsters in the closets, or hiding under the bed -- shadows in the night ready to steal ya, if ya don't watch out. I s'pect that's the side of de ShiverMan we all know like breathing.
Children got the right idea. Hide under your blanket until he gets bored, and leaves. One thing de ShiverMan can't stand, ever, is being bored.
(*) Edgar Allen Poe, American short story writer, essayist and poet, is
the one who called de ShiverMan - imp of the perverse.
Patricia
Ethelwyn Howell ~
|
Final Entry
I've had enough. Enough of life, failure. I've put up with it for
too long and now it's time to break the pattern. I've been failing
school because of them. Or myself.
I guess they have become a scapegoat for me, for my failings.
Honestly, it is myself. I fail because I don't work. I don't work
because I am afraid, or, perhaps, I just don't want to. Why I'm
afraid- I couldn't say. I couldn't put it into words because I don't
even know the words myself. Myself. One reason. I am afraid of myself
perhaps. Them. I am afraid of the because of what they did. The scars
never heal, at least, they haven't yet. I don't think they ever will.
Not while I am alive. Perhaps not even when I'm dead. That's the problem.
No-one can tell what happens when you die. If I knew the pain would
go then, I guess, I wouldn't be writing this. I have a choice to
make, to end it all. End my suffering, everyone else s suffering. But
I am afraid to do it. It's the final decision, can never be reversed.
Anyway, I don't think that I need to discuss the decision. Why I
need to make it is another matter.
Why? Them. me. They took my life, a long time ago. I am a shell
now. No hope, no joy in my life, except for a phone and computer. I
live on the 'net. I take other people's problems, be other people's
friends. It helps me forget, for a while, what I am. A failure. They
destroyed me, a long time ago. I never tried to fix that. I accepted
it. Since then my life has just sunk, slowly, into the bowels of the beast.
And depression is a large and powerful beast. I feel like I can't
escape it. Maybe I could but it has, sort of, become a way of life. I
haven't seen hope in a long time. Pipe-dreams, yes. They are always
there. I have glimpses of hope, slivers of light through the cracks
of this locked room. I eventually realise what they are, the dreams,
and the hope goes, the cracks indefinitely sealed from the outside.
And I don't bother trying to re-open them. It's like I heard once,
"Hope can be a dangerous thing." I have found this.
That light, it burns so bright for a while, illuminating my room.
And it hurts when that light is snuffed out, because the light, that
originally hurt my eyes when it appeared, before they had grown
accustomed to it, is gone and, again, I have to learn to see in the
dark again. Until the next crack opens, the light piercing the
darkness, near blinding me.
This has gone on long enough. I want to end it, shut my eyes
completely so, perhaps, I can remember what hope looked like.
I also feel I have droned on long enough. But who is going to read
this anyway?
If I don't write again, I just wanted to thank you. For being there.
***
Richard Dixon closed the book, his diary, and pushed himself from
the table. A tear slowly snaked down his cheek. He stood on his chair
and pulled the noose over his neck. He had made the decision, decided
to face his fear. Decided to do perhaps one of the bravest things he
ever would.
He pressed his foot down on the side of the chair, swaying it and
kicking it away.
Richard Browne ~
Through The Doorway, Rain
"Abigail, he ain't coming back. It's been two years! You have to come out, child. You can't stay in this room forever!"
But Abigail turned to face the darkness, holding onto something deep within, something not yet dried up, something not yet blown away.
"Abby! Abigail!"
"Close the door, momma," was all she said.
Sarah's shoulders fell, her weathered hand trembling on the bedroom door. She bit her lip, feeling a sense of worry turned to slow, absolute panic. She was losing her only daughter and nothing on this earth--not even a mother's sacred love--could bring her back. Sometimes she wanted to shake her from this madness, to scream into her blank and fading eyes: "I lost your father but I kept going! I kept going for you! You!"
Sarah closed the door and sat down at the table, listening to the coarse wind scratching at the walls, feeling the heat seeping through the roof. "Who is gonna keep going for me?"
Harsh light and wind filled the room as her brother came in from ten=
ding the corral. Ethan looked from Sarah to the door. He took off his hat and set his rifle next to the water bucket. "God almighty, when will it rain? Been over three months!" He looked at the bedroom door again, his eyes blinking slowly. "I hear the Prescotts' are giving it up, heading for San Antone, there's land there..."
Sarah looked at her brother, here eyes glinting with a sudden fire. "Ethan, we will not give up our home. There are too many of us buried in this ground. The Mexicans couldn't make us, the Comanche couldn't make us, the Yankees couldn't, this drought ain't gonna make us."
Ethan nodded. "Water's drying up fast. Lost two more head of cattle..."
"Ethan, we'll make do. We always have."
Abigail sat in her dark room, hearing secret messages in the wind - voices whispering just below her understanding. She knew, with all of her soul, that if she could only decipher the words, it would all be revealed. It must be him, her beloved James, trying to speak, trying to tell her that he was alive. Alive and coming home. If only she could hear him. The door to her heart was locked and the key was lost - the key to his words. Abigail closed her ears with white-knuckled fists.
"James... James... Please come back to me."
Sarah stood in the doorway with a bowl of stew and watched as her daughter slept. Her heart suddenly spun out, tender and fragile, to cradle her sleeping angel. Two years now since Lee surrendered in the spring greenness of Virginia and James... James wasn't coming home. Maybe San Antone would be better. Maybe someplace other than this room. Someplace with other people. A place with rain. Sarah tasted her own tears and it was bitter and all of it was so cruel, so much like dying piece by piece.
"Abigail," she whispered. "I brought you dinner."
Abigail remained still, her breath slow, lost in shadow.
"Abby. James ain't..."
Her daughter bolted upright, her hair tangled, her eyes wide and filled pain and sorrow and betrayal. "My James is coming home! He is, momma! I know it! I know it!"
Abigail became lost beyond the tears that filled Sarah's eyes. She placed the bowl down next to the bed and fled the room.
Sarah faced her brother across the table, her eyes raw, her face twisted in grief. Ethan reached across and placed his hand over hers. "Maybe she should go with the Prescotts," she said softly. "She's gonna die here. Oh Ethan!" Sarah wept and it was hard and full of nails. "I couldn't bare to have another one buried out there."
Ethan stood and embraced his sister. He'd been at Antietam. He'd been with Pickett at Gettysburg. And yet, this was agony beyond compare. "I'll get over to Prescotts. I know Elizabeth and Sam would take care of her like she was one of their own."
Sarah only nodded against his chest, her sobs shaking them both.
Ethan snapped the reins and headed down the trail towards the west. In the dying sunlight, the sky was filled with building clouds. Towering columns of promised rain. A mocking promise, Ethan thought. They built up, giving rain somewhere else, and then faded away. He thought he could even smell the dusty wetness of rain--in the wind, on his tongue, in his nose... but he wondered if it was but wishful thinking. Like that with Abigail. James wasn't coming home, that much was certain. He never told her but he'd heard that James had been mortally wounded at Petersburg.
"God damn that war."
Abigail listened to wind and it was almost intelligible. Almost a ghost of a word here and there. And the voice. Yes, the voice sounded like his. She took her hands away from her ears and listened to the scratching, the sighing, the whispering wind. Abigail twisted her nightshirt with both hands, as if trying to squeeze her heart free.
In the lull of the wind, in the space between heartbeats . . . she heard. Abigail held up her hands to the darkness and felt it all fall away.
In the lull of the wind, it began to rain. And it sounded like small pebbles on the roof.
It began to rain. And Abigail understood.
Ethan stopped his horse and looked skyward. He had felt... he blinked as a raindrop caught his eye. "Dear God." He stuck out his tongue and tasted dust and sweetness and all the green places of the earth.
Sarah stared up at the ceiling, past the raw beams and hardpack. Could it be? She rose from the table slowly, as if any sudden movement would change God's mind, and listened to the pitter-patter building around her.
Abigail's door opened.
"Abby?"
Her daughter stood in the doorway - beatitude, came to Sarah's mind, like in the Bible.
"He's come back, momma! I told you!"
"Oh Abby," Sarah moved to hold her daughter. "It's only the rain. Abby, it's only the rain."
Abigail rushed past her mother and reached for the door. A door she hadn't been through in nearly two years. She touched the latch and, turning slowly, gave her mother a look of fierce, pure love.
The door swung open and she stood on her toes and lifted her face to the rain as it swept into the house. Lightning flashed and illuminated the yard with a sharp blue-white light. Thunder rolled and pounded through her body. "I knew you would come," she called out. "I knew!"
Sarah reached out to her daughter. And stopped.
In the yard, where the parched, cracked ground was turning to streams of water, a figure stood dark against the scrub.
Lightning. Etching on her eyes: Ethan drawing up on a wildly dancing horse, calling out.
The figure moved, limping, stepping through the mud.
And Abigail passed through the doorway and into the rain.
Into the arms of her husband.
William Hiles ~
Sheer Coincidence ~ Part 1
The large luxury apartment was in one of the most expensive tower blocks in New York. The carpet, furnishings and drapes were all of the highest quality. An 18th century grandfather clock ticked noisily in the corner. The walls carried paintings by such artists as Rembrandt and Picasso. Glass cabinets held fine porcelain and china. But the most distinctive feature was the large picture window because it ran full length of the wall. The view was spectacular. From thirty-five stories up there was no need to worry about being overlooked.
It was 4 a.m. and the girl sitting by the window did not hear the ticking of the clock or the chime of the hour. As she gazed out over New York, her tears ran into the brandy as she sipped it. Libby Webber was 20 years old and had been in the States for a little over a year. Tonight for the first time she had realised her own vulnerability and it had scared her.
Coming home from work she had fallen asleep on the bus. When she awoke she had no idea where she was. Afraid of being taken further away she jumped off. That was when the nightmare began. <p>
This was where the hookers and pimps hung out. Crack dealers selling openly and money changing hands in wads. Groups of men playing craps, betting, laughing and jeering. Sometimes a fight broke out and the people on the sidewalk scattered. Libby felt particularly vulnerable because she was deaf. Although she could lip-read, it was impossible to catch all they said.
You wanna try some, and Come here, pretty, I'll show you what I got, were some of the comments aimed in her direction. The look on their faces was clear as they took in how well dressed and out of place she was. Sleazy strip joints and bars had men inviting her in. They would lick their lips and fondled their crotches at her. Then, wandering further afield someone grabbed her purse. She gave chase and he led her down an ally and brazenly faced her. Realising her compromised position she turned and fled, fear and panic overwhelming her. Not being able to use the telephone and having no money for a taxi, Libby was frantic.
When she was a child in England, her father had always drummed into to her that if she was lost, to mention his name, and someone would find him. Only this time, it wasn't her father's name she mentioned, it was Vinnie Costello's. Maybe that was why she had fallen in love with him although she didn't want to be in love. Disappointment and let downs always followed.
Pausing at the mirror she stared at her reflection. His little princess. That's what he used to call her. He would stroke her hair and tell her how pretty she was. Well, he wouldn't think so now, she thought to herself. She had cut off all her long tresses and her face had lost its roundness, lost its youth, even. Circles of tiredness dulled her eyes. She wandered round the room restlessly. She needed Vinnie and he wasn't here. Why was that familiar?
Vinnie. A man full of self-confidence, sure of who he was and his place in life. A man whose looks got him talked about. People respected him and feared him. She hadn't wanted to be dependant, knowing what it meant, but tonight, when she was in trouble she only had to mention his name and a car came for her and she was brought her. They said Vinnie would be told.
Libby wanted him to be waiting for her, to hold her and tell her she did the right thing. Only he wasn't, he was 300 miles away trying to buy a company that didn't want to sell. He would buy it because Vinnie always got what he wanted.
Karen Mossman ~