Holiday? What holiday?

Well, it has been a while since I have posted on here but I have been very busy of late – making final decisions on my degree courses, biting my nails waiting for A215 results and planning my first ever NaNoWriMo project (registering last year and then doing nothing at all doesn’t count!).

I passed A215 with a much-welcomed Grade 2, and that also meant I achieved my Diploma in Higher Education, so I’m very happy indeed with that outcome. I’m sure it has as much to do with having a brilliant tutor and loads of support from fellow students, as it does my writing ability! Congratulations to all of the A215 ‘gang’, and indeed to all the other OU students who received results this week!

I have withdrawn my registration for the Advanced Creative Writing course, however. It was just not filling me with excitement the way a course should when you are approaching the start date. Instead, I have gone back to my somewhat hidden love of Art History, and registered for AA315, Renaissance Art Reconsidered. It looks like a brilliant course, and I already have one of the set books to look through. I’ve also been reading my course books from A216, Art and its Histories, which I sadly had to drop out of some years ago. Really looking forward to the start of AA315 in October, although it may mean less creative writing for a while.

Less, that is, once Camp NaNoWriMo has finished. For those who are not familiar, it’s a bit of fun for writers, a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. Camp NaNo runs in August, but the main ‘competition’ is in November, with another in June.

It may only be Day 4, but I am enjoying it enormously. It has been hard work – you feel as if you are writing under pressure and have to get at least some words done each day (over the month the average is just over 1,600 per day), but having said that, it’s surprising how your ideas come to the fore and demand to be written down when you do have some kind of incentive behind you. I’m writing a fantasy novel, the idea for which I had some months ago, and did actually start to write until A215 ‘took over’. I have kept the characters and the main thread of the plot, but changed some other things and made it much more complex, and – hopefully – more interesting. Of course, it is a novel written in a hurry, so therefore a rough draft. But as Alexander McCall Smith says, ‘just get the darn thing done’, and worry about the editing afterwards. And there will be a lot of editing. See you all sometime next year, perhaps??

Ten Seconds – one of my best OU assignment scores ever!

This is my latest assignment piece for A215 – tutor really liked it, and so did I, to be honest. I hope you all do, too!

Ten Seconds

The cemetery was peaceful; the November fog was enveloping the whole village and giving the large graveyard an added serenity. The sodden carpet of decaying leaves on a grassy underlay made no noise as the man made his way casually to the wooden bench at the far end. Aside from the distant hum of traffic on the main road some distance away, there was no sound, not even from the birds.

He reached the bench, and sat down. He stretched out his long, lean legs in front of him, and crossed one heavy black boot over the other, looking as if he was just there for a rest in a quiet spot. He narrowed his dark eyes and attempted to catch tiny droplets of water in his focus as the fog descended further. He shivered intermittently, despite his thick, padded coat, and flexed his stiff and slowly paling fingers to get the blood flowing.

Then, he waited.

Father Harding’s posture changed when he saw the man sitting on the bench. His shoulders sagged and his body seemed to slump forwards a little. He bowed his head, the rim of his black hat obscuring his aged face. Glancing up under his bushy grey eyebrows, he saw the man sitting up straight, watching his approach. Soon he could clearly see his large brown eyes, the unnaturally long lashes, and the gentle lines of his features which suggested some serenity and kindness, counteracting the serious expression he wore. The priest sighed, and straightened up again.

‘Father,’ said the man as he reached the bench. ‘Do you have a minute?’

The priest stopped just short of the bench. ‘Not really – I’m due at a meeting in 15 minutes. Can it wait?’ he said, shifting from foot to foot and hugging himself deeper into his thick woollen coat.

‘It’s important. I wanted to talk to you about what you said to me yesterday.’ The man’s look was steady, neutral.

The priest raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we had said all we needed to say, son. I cannot bring you to God while you continue your life in the way you do.’ There was an unnatural harshness in the priest’s voice, which seemed amplified by the atmosphere of the darkening cemetery.

‘Well, I thought about everything you said, and this is why I need to talk to you.’ The man had spoken softly, almost coyly, as if he knew how to act to get what he wanted. ‘I wanted your advice on changing things. Im determined, Father. I won’t keep you long.’

Father Harding sighed and checked his expensive-looking silver watch. ‘Five minutes. That’s really all I can spare. Follow me.’

They entered the church through a heavy oak door, and then passed through a wood-panelled porchway. The light was poor, despite the large stained-glass windows inside the main body of the church. The pale beige stone of the walls did not reflect much light, and the candles in front of the little statue of the Virgin Mary at the far end of one of the aisles made little difference. It smelled of previously snuffed out candles, musty cloth and cheap wood polish. It did not look very much like a welcoming House of God, and the man frowned as he shivered again, his eyes trying to adjust to the gloom.

It was not a large church; perhaps a dozen pews down each side of the nave. It seemed small for the size of the village it served, but the number of people regularly attending was falling year by year, so it was of no consequence.

The altarpiece was of carved grey stone, showing saints and angels in minute detail. The man took a deep breath as he looked up at the finely sculpted framework that held six white candlesticks. An intricately moulded golden crucifix stood in the centre. As he studied the figure of Christ, he looked as if he was trying to apologise for what he was about to do.

Hearing the sigh, the priest turned, and followed the man’s gaze. He raised an eyebrow again, with a disdainful expression on his face, and walked on.

The priest began to rub his hands together as he led the man to the pews at the front of the nave. He invited him to take a seat in one, but the man stood still, both of his hands in his pockets. Father Harding glanced around, biting his dry and chapped lips, and then turned to take a seat himself. While his attention was on not tripping over the prayer cushions, he did not notice the man slip into the pew behind him, taking something from one pocket as he did so.

The man placed a strong hand on the priest’s right shoulder, preventing him from standing up again. He raised a small black handgun, showing it to the priest, and then pressed it to the side of Father Harding’s head.

The priest gulped in as much air as his lungs would take and then held his breath, his upper arms forced in tightly against his ribcage and his fists clenched. His whole body shifted up an inch, almost lifting off the hard wooden seat as he pushed up with his toes, tensing every muscle he had. But the man pushed him back down roughly, making him utter a faint squeak.

‘This will not take long, as I told you,’ said the man in a firm voice that echoed flatly around the small building. ‘I just have a question for you that I would like you to answer truthfully.’

The priest swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling his own fog into the cold air around him.

‘There is no need for this, son,’ he said in a scratchy, meek voice. ‘We can talk calmly about all of this. I can cancel my meeting…’

‘Don’t waste your own time trying to talk me out of doing this my way, Father. I tried to talk to you yesterday, and that didn’t work out too well, did it? Be quiet.’

Father Harding slumped a little in the seat.

‘Now – I want to find out how important God is to you. I want to know just how much you appreciate Christ dying on the cross for you.’ He paused, looking up to the golden figure of Jesus once again, with an expression that contained a little of his inner torture.

The priest’s eyes jerked sideways, his expression one of bewilderment, towards the hand that held the gun to his head. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but then clamped shut again, and he lapsed back into the blank stare once more.

Turning back to the priest, flickers of candlelight in his eyes adding to the intensity of his glare, the man spoke again. ‘You see, yesterday you told me that I had to change my life before you would help me. You said you had to see determination in me – a complete renunciation of my former life – before I could be welcomed into this church, as a child of God. Did you not?’

Father Harding nodded quickly.

‘I have a problem with that.’ Pressing the gun more firmly into Father Harding’s left temple, he said, ‘Did Christ not accept the robber who was being crucified next to Him? Did Christ say to the sinners who ate with Him, “I have to see evidence of you changing your life before you will join me in Heaven”?’

Father Harding squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the pressure of the weapon against his head. He again opened his mouth, the lips quivering, a droplet of spittle beginning to escape from the corner as he fought for an answer. But nothing came. He licked his lips and swallowed and then he finally spoke.

‘You have seen, O Lord; do not be silent! Oh Lord, do not be far from me.’  The man frowned as Father Harding’s voice seemed to gain strength from his own words. ‘Wake up! Bestir yourself for my defence, for my cause, my God and  my Lord – ‘

‘SHUT UP!’ the man suddenly shouted, causing the priest to jump in the seat. The gun was pressed even harder into his head. ‘I’m going to ask you just one question, and your answer will determine whether you live or die.’

Father Harding slumped in the seat and closed his eyes again.

‘Are you ready to die for your faith?’ the man asked, uttering the words slowly, deliberately, making sure the priest completely understood the implications of the question.

The priest inhaled sharply, and tears began to trickle down his pale, wrinkled skin. He opened his eyes and looked at the figure of Christ at the altar.

‘If your answer is no, I’ll let you live. If it’s yes, I’ll pull the trigger, and you can be with God. You’ve got ten seconds.’

‘Please…I -‘ Father Harding tried to look at the man but was held still by the gun at his temple, and the grip on his shoulder tightened.

‘Ten…’

The priest began to cry quietly. ‘Please…forgive me for turning you away yesterday,’ he said, but then fell silent, and continued to weep.

The man continued to count down, feeling the priest’s body shaking under his hand, watching the tears running freely down his face. The man began to tremble slightly himself, and despite taking a deep breath, tears began to seep from his widened eyes as he got closer to ‘zero’.

‘Three.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘How appropriate. Two.’

Father Harding screwed his entire face up as if to flinch away from the shot he was dreading.

‘One.’

‘WAIT!’ Suddenly Father Harding opened his eyes and fought to be able to look at the man directly in the face, but the man held him still. ‘Please! I’m – I’m not ready!’

The man slowly closed his eyes tightly, causing more tears to run down his face. He moved the gun away from the priest’s head and used the sleeve of his coat to hastily wipe them from his  face, before Father Harding could turn and see them. He lightened the pressure slowly on Father Harding’s shoulder, hesitated, and then let go of him altogether. Standing up, he seemed to almost stagger out of the pew, his hands falling limply by his sides. There was complete silence in the church.

Father Harding turned towards the man, his face still contorted in grief and fear as the tears coursed down his cheeks. He studied the man’s face and body language, and then slowly stood up to face him. He looked questioningly at the man, as if he was expecting an explanation for all that had just happened in his own church.

The man looked deflated and beaten, with eyes were red-rimmed and tired-looking, no longer emitting the light which had been there only seconds before. He was shivering and his hands trembled. He breathed in deeply through his nose and looked up, his gaze moving slowly across the decorated, vaulted ceiling, before dropping back to Father Harding.

Father Harding stepped back a little as the man lifted the handgun. He did not point it at the priest this time, however. He simply slid back the barrel assembly to show that the chamber was empty, and ejected the magazine. He tossed the magazine to Father Harding, who almost dropped it in surprise. The priest looked at it, and saw that it, too, was empty.

‘You see, Father,’ the man said in a voice that was no longer strong or steady, ‘I came here yesterday with complete faith in you and God. You turned me away.’ His voice almost cracked altogether, and he swallowed hard.

Father Harding looked down at the floor, still weeping silently. After a few seconds he looked up again, looking resigned to his guilt.

‘I am sorry, my son…’

‘It doesn’t matter, Father,’ the man said, recovering his composure a little. ‘I still have complete faith in God. I just know now that you are not the person to tell me about him…’

The man held out his hand, and the priest returned the magazine to him without a word. The man then turned around and walked slowly away towards the door, placing the handgun and its magazine back into the pockets of his coat. As he reached the door and put his hand out to open it, he turned and gave the priest one last look.

‘I’ll pray for you, Father.’

As the man quietly closed the door behind him, the priest slowly dropped to his knees and sobbed.

Mitigating Circumstances

This is my piece for my first assignment for A215, for which I got 71%. I’m very happy with that because George was my great-uncle, and I wanted to make a good job of taking his Australian Imperial Force Service Record and showing some of the real man behind the basic facts. He was a bit of a rogue (and a loveable one, by all accounts!), but he was also a hero – after the events I describe here, he was ‘recommended for gallantry’ before being killed in action just 44 days before the end of the war in 1918.

RIP George. You may have died when my granny was only 10, but you’re still a hero to me.

Mitigating Circumstances.

As I sit here in my dingy cell, half of me wants to cry out at the injustice of it all. I’ve been here for fifty days and have another seventy to go. It’s damp in here, cold at night. I hear the drip of water seeping in through the stone walls as I lie under the heavy, itchy blanket on the lumpy, rusting, creaking bed. I hear mice sometimes. I’m surprised they are not put off coming in here by the smell of my bucket. The stench stings my nostrils, the ammonia making my eyes water. My hair is filthy, my teeth are getting worse by the day. I’m as dirty as I was out on the front lines. My muscles are beginning to lose their tone and strength with idleness. My skin is dry and sore in places. I must look much older than my twenty-five years.

If only they would take into account the reason why I was so desperate to get away for a while.

They just don’t understand; these officers way up high who’ve never seen any action in the whole of the bloody war. Sitting in their offices away from the front lines, with a servant bringing them tea; never hearing a shell screaming towards them, or seeing the bloody mess of men’s legs and arms flying through the air. Never smelling the burnt flesh of the man who seconds ago was standing next to you, or hearing the cries of the infantryman who just wants to be held by his mother one last time. The heat. The cold. The flies and mosquitoes. The food that gives you a choice between starvation and sickness. I’ve already had dysentry and been in the hospital at Alexandria. While I was there I got influenza. Took three months to get me back fit for duty. Does General Moore have any idea what any of that is like?

I hadn’t seen my family for seven years, since I emigrated to Australia to work in the gold mines, before the war broke out. I miss them. There’s nothing like being seriously ill and facing death to make you realise what’s important in life.

It’s not that I don’t want to fight. I joined up to fight, not to run away. But if I’m going to die for my adopted country and my
country of birth, I want to spend some time with my family first.

Of course, the other half of me feels some relief at being away from the action. There’s only so much of the death and devastation that any man can take in one go. I hadn’t been on leave for 20 months. I couldn’t face anything else like Gallipoli again, without a chance to see my family, and a chance to remember what it is we are all fighting for.

My mother needed me. Brother Charlie was killed in June and brother Samuel is on active service somewhere. Father is dead. How could I get shipped off God knows where again without seeing her, when being based at Longbridge Deverill I was so close to home in Porlock. I would have been ashamed of myself for not going to see her. Honour thy mother and father, isn’t that what we are taught?

It was worth it. The look on her face when I showed up, and every morning when I sat with her at the breakfast table, was worth all the punishment that’s been thrown at me. It’s her I fight for.

I wish had they looked at more than the bare facts when they sentenced me, though. One hundred and thirty days detention.
Forfeiture of a hundred and forty-eight days’ pay. That’s a lot of time to spend thinking about the horrors I’ve seen, and a lot of
money that Mother really needs. I wish they had looked at where I’ve been, what I’ve been through, how facing the terrors and the reality of war for 20 months solid and being so ill for so much of that time had made me snap in some way. I know I’m not the only one, and that lads much younger than me are going through the same horrors, but surely having a break would make us better soldiers on our return?

Send me back to the front. I’ll prove my worth. Just don’t make me sit here for another seventy days, being useless. This punishment makes no sense!

Give me another chance!

Hey! Are you listening?!

An Exmoor story.

Found this yesterday while searching through reams of old paperwork for something important (which I still haven’t located). I wrote this in my car when I escaped for the day from the madness of my home life (4 teenagers and a baby) and drove down to my favourite place in England – Exmoor. I’ve not edited it very much, as I want to retain some feeling of what my writing was like then (2007) compared to now, and the feeling of writing in dribs and drabs, in a hurry, as I travelled around. Obviously the character is not me, but everything that happens in the piece is what I actually did and saw that day. It’s also unfinished, as I ended up just enjoying my time down there, rather than spending most of it scribbling away!

Comments welcome!

The day was blustery and showers had been frequent on the drive down the motorway, but now the sun shone and he could hear the birds in the trees. It finally felt like July.

The car park was fairly quiet, and the town seemed sleepy for one on the edge of such a tourist attraction as Exmoor. He had been here before, but too long ago to remember anything much. There was a hotel, where he’d been to a friend’s 21st birthday bash, but even the friend’s name escaped him now. So much had changed; only one thing remained strong about this area for him – his love of where he was headed.

There he could be free again. He was impatient to get there, but also the drive had been good for him. The anxiety wasn’t as bad today as it had been on previous long drives. He no longer gripped the wheel as if everyone was trying to intimidate him or as if the car would do something crazy by itself.

Twenty past ten. He had been on the road now three hours; a leisurely drive with two stops. He hadn’t even been lost yet, a feat in itself given the long years since he had last been here. He guessed he should make a move. Maybe eat something first. He smiled to himself as he looked at his supplies. He was only here for the day, but he’d brought enough food for the whole weekend, almost.

Five more minutes, with the door open, and the warm breeze to refresh him, he decided.

An hour later he was parked on a ridge by a cattle grid, in a spot that felt very familiar to him. On his left, a line of trees and a steep bank showed where the moor boundary lay. In front of him was wide open moor, looking wild and unspoilt – just what he’d come here for. A few cars came and went, some stopping, people getting out to take photographs, just as he had done moments earlier. Without realising, he had stopped near a small group of Exmoor ponies, and had taken the opportunity to capture these beautiful animals as they should be, as he felt right then – free.

The wind had increased dramatically since he’d been in Bampton, and showers lashed down at his car. He let the sounds of the wilderness envelop him, and was glad to be able to witness this place in another one of its many moods. It was still warm, and he was comfortable in a short-sleeved shirt – and he had brought a coat and boots to go walking in. But not yet. Tarr Steps was going to be the place for that.

The sky was silver now – no traces of the blue that had been present in patches all morning. The forecast had been bad but he knew that if he put off this trip he might not get another chance for a long time.

He allowed himself to feel proud of his achievement. Four months ago even getting in the car for a five-minute journey was an ordeal. He would arrive shaking, dreading the drive home again. Or just find excuses not to go.

Now he was over a hundred miles away from home, in a wild and mysterious territory, alone, and that word kept popping into his head – free.

He loved his life, his family, his partner. He missed them today. He knew his anxiety was tough on them at times. But he knew, and hoped they did too, that today was as much about self-therapy, and doing his own work towards getting better, as it was about leisure and enjoyment.

That was why he felt proud. Nobody had pushed him, but they had helped him to do this. So he was proud of them too.

All was quiet now. The cars were gone – perhaps the temperamental weather was driving them all towards their homes. Only he was left to appreciate the darker atmosphere this place had to offer. He felt safe here.

Sheep dotted the slopes in front of him, grazing the sparse grass that grew in between the gorse and heather. He wished he had learned what all this vegetation was. He had spotted ferns and foxgloves on the way here, on the verges and in the hedgerows, not something seen at home. But he didn’t know what anything else was called. Even the odd trees scattered around he didn’t recognise. But, he thought, his ignorance didn’t dampen his appreciation for what God had bestowed upon this part of His planet.

As much as he didn’t want to think about the time, he knew he should make a move now, if he was to take in Tarr Steps and go to Porlock before it was time to go home. He had respects to pay in both places.

With one last look around, he sighed, breathing in the pure air, and wound up his window against the elements – onward he went on his pilgrimage…

Tarr Steps was every bit as magical as he remembered. He vowed to look it up properly when he got home for its history, but for now he was happy just to take in the scene and the sounds of the rushing water around him. A few groups of people passed by now and then – indeed, one man had come to his rescue; kindly donating his ticket when he realised he had brought no change for the car park. But nobody disturbed him here. He had found a comfy stone under some trees, where the summer rain couldn’t spoil his visit too much.

The occasional bird was audible over the sound of the river hurrying through the massive boulders of the ancient clapper bridge. Then the wind picked up and blew droplets of water from the trees onto his bare head. But he couldn’t imagine a better place to help him with his recovery. Here was not only freedom, but peace. A peace he had not known for a long time.

He realised then that all he had to do to find a way to feel at ease was look for the natural beauty all around, even at home. He didn’t need a hundred-mile drive and forty pounds worth of petrol. And he didn’t need to ‘escape’ his family – he now wished they had all come here, to share in the magic. He resolved to put that right when he got home. He would tell them all about it, and hope they would want to join him on his little quests for peace of mind, to make him stronger for everyday life – to do what pills could not. All he needed to do was carry this version of himself back up the M5. Live it. If God was here, then surely he was there, too, if one just looked.

The rain poured down. Children were enjoying the steps, walking in to the shallow part of the river. Their spirits were unaffected by the weather, much like his own.

He was drenched on his way back to his car, but didn’t care. The climb was steep, but a sheep which was practically bald, with horns and a green dye on its neck, eyed him suspiciously and distracted him from the effort. But he wasn’t afraid of it. Fear was no longer his heavy backpack that he had carried day and night for months on end.

On the road to Exford he parked at a spot on the top of a hill. The rain had moved in with a purpose now, and all around him the low cloud obscured the view. The wind howled a tune around the car, and he wished he could capture the sound; almost like a medieval flute, full of life and joy at nature’s gift of life-giving water.

It was lonely there, but he revelled in it, wishing his time there wasn’t so limited.

My first foray into plague territory…

Also posted as ‘flash fiction’ on the A174 forums.

 

The damage was done. So much went through his mind as he sat alone outside his home in the fading sunlight. What would happen now? There was nothing anyone could do about what was going to happen – he knew that in his heart and soul.

He surveyed what little land and property they had fought hard for and worked at for generations. The tiny enclosed yard, dusty in summer and oozing with mud in winter, the home of their single pig and a handful of chickens, all vying for whatever scraps they could spare. The pathetic little ‘meadow’ – the spit of land that afforded precious little grazing for the scrawny horse that was their only means of getting around. He found it hard to care about what happened to all of that.

But the little house, its greying thatched roof, the tiny windows with ragged curtains which stirred in the evening breeze. The sparse furniture inside, surviving belongings from father, grandfather, great-grandfather… All of that would be lost.

But where he sat was the place he feared for the most. This little ‘cottage garden’. The peaceful haven where he would sit every evening and let the cares of the day go down with the setting of the sun. Where his weary muscles took a well-earned rest. Where his wife tended her flowers and herbs. Where his father, now long dead, had taught him how to grow vegetables enough to see them through tough times, and even sell at the market during better times. Where his children played, chasing the butterflies, and watching the bees load up their saddlebags with pollen. Where the seeds of the wild flowers would float in the summer haze, ready to bring new life to another secret corner. A place so defiantly full of life and hope that it was hard to place what was happening now in amongst it all.

His children. He looked at his feet in anguish, hot tears springing to his tired eyes. It was going to be unimaginably terrifying for them. The boy, ten years old, would probably suffer most. He was old enough to know what was going on around them, and realise that they would share the same fate. The girl was just five, but he shuddered as he imagined what was in store for her.

How could he have been so stupid as to let the old hag in the door in the first place? She had been a ‘searcher’, she admitted that. As poorly schooled as he had been, he should have realised that she was probably the most dangerous person roaming the silent streets at that time. He had not realised until later that the old woman had brought this upon them all, and by then it was too late.

The damage was done.

He got up, walked to the house, and begun to carefully scratch words on the door, as best he could. ‘Lorde have mercie on us.’

Another snippet from the ditched novel, that I used for a ‘flash fiction’ piece.

 

I pulled my coat tighter around me. It had no effect whatsoever. The winter had firmly planted its roots and was here to stay. At least my first lone emergency call out of my first ever job was to a freezing hilltop farm, where nobody would be able to see me shaking from nerves as well as from the cold.

On the 8 mile drive up I’d had visions of a myriad of disasters that could befall an unsuspecting, newly qualified vet. What if I’d taken too long to get here and the foaling had ended without me in complete disaster? What if I got there on time to intervene and it still ended in disaster? What if I unwittingly caused it to end in disaster when everything might have been fine without me?

I took a deep breath, and tried to shake off the remnants of my paranoia. I would be fine. After all, I was qualified. I was trusted by my new boss.

And I’d volunteered to go it alone. My youthful bravado sneaking in for just long enough to drop me in the mire.

I decided I could procrastinate no more. It was inevitable that I would face something difficult at some point, so where was the harm in getting it over with now?

I took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, the plume of steam reminding me of the chill that would obligingly hide my nerves. I pushed open the gates to the yard and walked apprehensively across to the imposing stable block in front of me. As I got closer the air seemed to become stale, heavy, stifling…get a bloody grip, man, I told myself sternly.

Just then a stout, middle aged man with a terrifying handlbar moustache emerged from one of the loose boxes, an enormous grin lifting the facial hair up so high I thought it would poke his eyes out.

“Well then young man!” he called breezily. “Don’t look so terrified! She’s done it all without you!”

I amazed myself by being highly disappointed in the mare. How could she?!

 

 

Amazing what you find…

..when you go through old documents. Found this, which was an activity we had to do for A174. We had to write a short piece using all of the sentences which appear in bold. Surprisingly hard to do! Thought it would be appropriate to post it considering the content of my previous blog entry!

Activity 3.7

Sarah threw the book out of the window. It didn’t feel as if any of the information was being retained by her brain, but merely sloshed around in there like water in a washing machine. Any minute now it would just be drained out of her head.

For years now, she had thought of doing this. So why was she wishing she hadn’t? Why was she so scared of her own failure she wished she had never attempted the course?

Beyond the garden wall, there was a school. She envied the little children there, not fearing ridicule and self-loathing if they wrote an N backwards or mistook a pear for an apple.

She recalled a particular phrase her mother had once said. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

She would go and retrieve the book later.

Half an hour later she stood looking in the mirror in her bedroom. The mirror was set in a gold frame, and she remembered the day he had bought it for her. That was the first day she knew he truly loved her.

The doorbell rang.

‘You’re so beautiful …’ Mark said, kissing her cheek. But she didn’t feel it. Her dress was the colour of wet slates. Although it brought out the blue of her eyes it was hardly feminine.

They had ham and eggs for lunch again. She managed to blurt out her idea of just not turning up for the exam. If she was going to fail, let it be in peace in her own home.

‘If you even think it, I’ll …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t think of what he would do. ‘You can do this, Sarah. I have faith in you.’

On Friday, it was all over.

Bravery, she knew, was often underrated. If anyone had really known the sheer effort it took her to walk through that door and take that exam, they would have pinned a medal on her.

It was early afternoon. She had promised Mark that she would call him as soon as she’d finished, but she knew if she hurried she could catch him going back into work from lunch.

She was so relieved, elated, excited – she never heard the screech of brakes.

Redemption

This is a piece I did for A174, which I hope to expand upon at some point in the future.

As the snow began to fall on his upturned face, Stephen remembered those winters when this place held no fears for him. As a child it was nothing for him to come and wander around the old graveyard. He would read the headstones, thinking about the people they named, imagining what sort of lives they had lived, and if they had been better than his. The dead didn’t scare him.

‘Look there’s that weirdo kid again,’ the teenagers from the estate would shout, pointing and laughing. Sometimes they threw stones at him, or chased him. They caught him once, and beat him with sticks and spat in his face. He’d gone home crying, and all his mother had said was, ‘Well, it serves you right – why can’t you be normal, like your brother? You’re twins, after all!’ Stephen never felt like a twin. Not with the birthmark.

Now, as he stood and watched the white flakes fall all around him, enveloping him in the secrets of the graveyard and shielding him from the outside world, he half wished times were like that still.

He moved off, the untrodden snow soft under his boots. Nobody came here any more unless they had to. Only birds left evidence of their presence before his arrival, but now even they were in hiding. There was an oppressive silence, and he shivered as much from the atmosphere of the place as from the cold.

He passed under the old yew trees into the separate burial area beyond. Down this path was where the old crypts were; his refuge whenever he was chased after that beating.

He heard the sobbing. His arm dropped to his side, the hand carrying the flowers relaxing, letting them drop with a faint rustle of leaves into the snow. There was no point in bringing flowers today.

He reached the crypts, and crept quietly between them to a solitary gravestone on the other side.

‘Dean,’ he said quietly, from just a few feet away. ‘It’s alright, Dean, I’m here now.’

Dean didn’t look up from under his hood, but continued to hug himself, rocking slightly back and forth. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said, his voice barely more than a trembling whisper.

‘I’m sorry, I was taking care of something.’

‘It should be you here, not me.’ And so it started again. The rage, always at Stephen, never at the right people. ‘I was just taking a short cut because of the rain. They were after you – you’re a coward! It should be you here!’

Stephen sighed and sat down next to his brother. ‘Dean. It’s over now.’

Dean looked at Stephen, showing no tears that should have been freezing on his young face. Just the trickle of blood from the impact of his head on the gravestone he was sitting on.

‘I have to go away, Dean. I can’t come here any more.’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘I’m no longer a coward Dean. I’ve given you justice. You can rest in peace now.’

A genuine graveyard musing.

This was written some time ago in my ‘writing journal’. It had a purpose at the time it was written – it was a scene for a novel, but I have now scrapped it. Small snippets like this one are all that remain.

The Church.

As he closed the door behind him, all the sounds of the busy village were abruptly shut out. All Adrian could hear now was birdsong filtering through a small open window somewhere to the rear of the church. Inside, all was quiet. Not a soul to be seen.

The pretty little church, parts of which dated back to the 12th Century, was open to visitors, and often tourists came to look around, but right now it was empty. Adrian was glad about that.

He made his way slowly to the front of the church, blinkered to its decoration, oblivious to its historical stained glass and elaborately carved memorial plaques.

He didn’t really know why he was there. He was not religious. His family were not religious. The only time he had set foot in a church was for a university friend’s wedding the year before he graduated. He just had the idea that this was the one place in the village he would not feel hated; where he could escape the horrors of his life and feel safe, if only for a short time.

He had no faith – he just didn’t know if he believed in God or not. He was of a scientific mind, having studied so much of it in his short life. His logical mind had no room for God. But sometimes he felt cheated, as if he was missing out – like everyone had been given something that he had not. What was it that he could not see? Was it his own doing, or had God decided he was not fit to receive the ‘gift of faith’, as he had often heard it called?

It didn’t feel fair. In times of crisis, those with faith in God, any god, had someone to lean on, someone to talk to, and the feeling that they were never alone. He felt very alone.

Was there a use in sitting there looking at the products of other people’s faith? Was there a point other than knowing he’d be safe?

He couldn’t pray. He wouldn’t know what to say. He would feel stupid, no matter how alone he was.

He could no more force faith on himself than he could force it on others.

He almost jumped out of his skin as someone lifted the latch and entered the church behind him. He dared not look round – not really knowing why – but stayed perfectly still, head bowed slightly, thinking the visitor would assume he was at prayer and not wish to disturb him. He heard the man – was it a man? It sounded like a man’s heavier footfalls – slowly move around to his left, and approach the front of the church, almost level with the row in which Adrian was sitting. Adrian dared not breathe; every nerve, every muscle, was taught so far he felt he would snap, as the man then moved in behind him again, before finally receeding once more towards the door. He heard the jingle of coins, as the visitor made a donation.

And then he was gone.

Adrian began to breathe again, and suddenly coughed, causing his injured ribs to protest. The clock on the church tower began to chime the hour, and Adrian shivered as his body tried to settle itself down. He didn’t feel safe here. Even here they could get to him. God wasn’t home.

He slowly looked around, checking he was still alone. Then he stood up, and with one last reproachful look at the carved figure of Jesus at the entrance to the chancel, he left.

There was nobody to help him but himself.