Sunrise

There was a dull ache where she banged her head on coffee table last night. She touched it lightly, wincing as her fingers touched the raw cut on her left temple. Carefully, she moved off the couch, staggering towards the stairs. She started to climb, gripping the banister tightly, pulling herself upwards. She made her way to the bathroom and undressed, stepping into the shower. She allowed the warm water to spray over her sore bones, stinging her cuts, before soothing them with the heat. Red merged with water falling to her feet, swirling around before being swallowed at the plughole. Breathing in she closed her eyes, relishing in the calmness of the moment. She was there for half an hour before finally starting to scrub away at her bruises with soap. She was gentle not to lather the cut on her head or the tiny stab wound on her right shoulder.
    Once she finished she wrapped the large bath towel around her and walked towards the bathroom mirror to check her injuries. The mirror had steamed up and using the palm of her hand she cleared a good portion to view herself carefully. Her bright blue eyes stood out more with the black shadows that surrounded them, making her thin, long face haggard looking. Her red hair was pushed right back off her face, leaving her cut visible. She manoeuvred her fragile body to try and see the damage to her back. The shower had washed away the dry blood that had clotted over the shoulder wound so it had started to bleed again. It wasn’t a deep gash and a plaster would be enough to heal it. She was lucky, she had escaped with only a few bruised ribs and minor cuts. Not like past times, where she incurred broken bones and deeper gashes. Opening her cabinet she pulled out a box of plasters and covered her scars.
    Entering her bedroom she dressed in her track suit bottoms and a black t-shirt. Opening the curtains, she watched the sun starting to rise. The dawn was fading fast and beautiful reds, oranges and yellows mixed with light and dark tones of blue. The birds were chirping like crazy, as if they were all discussing last nights events. Magpies telling of how their cousin, the raven, had visited last night. She watched the stillness of the trees in her garden and the calm flowers swaying lightly under the pressure of fresh morning dew. She stood lost for a few seconds before the phone rang, making her jump. She rushed to pick it up.
    ‘Hello, hello. Ariel?’ the caller’s voice was filled with concern.
    ‘Hi, Janet, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get you involved.’ Ariel sounded like she had a sore throat. She sat on the side of her bed, stroking her aching arm.
    ‘I’m just sorry, it didn’t stop him. Where is he?’ Janet spoke softly waiting for a reply, but Ariel didn’t speak. After a short pause Janet asked again.
    ‘He’s gone’ Ariel turned her head looking passed the window, towards the sky, further still.
    ‘Gone. Where?’
    ‘Hell hopefully,’ Ariel replied. ‘Listen Janet, I’m feeling quite queasy at the moment can I call you back later?’
    ‘Sure Hun, of course. You take it easy today, don’t come to work. I’ll cover for you, ok.’ Janet said a few more goodbyes and then the call ended. Ariel picked up the photo frame and sat for a short while looking at the head shot image of her and Jacob. They were both smiling. She gave a sigh and placed  it facing down on her bedside table. She got up and made her way back downstairs.
    In the kitchen she made herself a cup of coffee then sat in the white washed kitchen and quietly drank her coffee while the sun streamed in lining her life with light. Residents of Pearly Road would soon be up and running their daily routines. Ariel didn’t look forward to the gossiping and pity filled glances that the neighbouring houses would revel in. She shivered at the thought of having to answer questions and justify last nights events. It was going to be a long day, she thought. Finishing her coffee. She washed up and walked into the living room. She straightened the cushions and bits of furniture that had toppled in the fight. Then assessing the room, she walked over and picking the receiver, she started to dial. She stood tall when the operator asked what the emergency was.
    ‘I’d like to report my husband's dead body in my living room.’

Writing while Procrastinating.

I am poor as a writer. I can't see a story or plot developing. I don't see connections clearly between words or phrases, that read better as stand alones. All i see is the light wind, heavier than a cool breeze, forcing trees to sway. From where I sit, staring out the bedroom window, the leaves seem to chatter and squeal with delight as the sensation of photosynthesis surges through their veins. I see the humming birds rest on the branches. Like shoulders bearing the burden of life, they sag slightly with the weight; as tiny as it may be.
     I pick my pen and begin to write. A prologue to writing begins.

No sooner did my wits adhere to the lifting of the sun. I shot a glance to the man, laying on his stomach beside me. I frowned and cursed, quietly to myself. Then quickly panning the room I sat up holding my head in my hands. The darkened room, which was succombing to the spreading light was bare, with a pine vaneered, two door wardrobe and a bedside table that didn't match. Clothes were thrown across the floor, not mine I was glad to see. The wall paper was shabby and too flowery to belong to the tattooed arm next to me, but who was I to judge. 
    I quietly crept out of bed, making sure not to wake the sleeping beast; i made my way for the door and suddenly made my exit. In a hallway I stood not sure where to go. Going straight then turning left, I saw an elevator. When it came I entered, I was on the fourth floor, so I pressed 'zero', thinking it would take me to ground level.
    When the elevator doors opened I stepped out ready to leave last nights memories, or lack of them, behind me. Instead I froze in sheer confusion. My eyes wide and my mouth slighlty open. I was standing on the same floor as when I entered the lift. As soon as realisation kicked in, the lift doors closed, leaving me alone in the ghostly hall of floor number four.

I let out a sigh and put down my pen. Then I stare out at the world again. The birds and bees and the butterflies, all competing with each other to see who is the better singer. The birds they tweet out a tune, whistling and chirping about the sky. The bee's hum a sweet nectar driven lullaby. The butterflies flap and flutter, whispering using their wings as drummers against the wind, as they chant about new life. I sigh, as if in tune with these flying acrobats, who twirl and swirl and whirl to great heights. Yet I am sitting staring, quietly and definately not writing.
Definately not writing.

Book of Life

I stand in the anguish of ripped nature where fallen trees are a defeat between it and materialism. Born from a woodchurner who pulps and pushes me out, ready for the midwife, who cuts me from the root and binds me tightly in natural fibres. Then, I am placed on the bosom of my writers heart. There is no turning back now. I am but the soul of something to be written.

The cover so soft like baby’s skin, each page crisp and white, untouched by evil. Slowly my stories emerge as the white is taken up with different colours. I speak volumes only too be misunderstood. Guided by a hand that nurtures my whim. I sense her passion and strength in every word softly spoken against my innocence. She passes me to another who writes wisdom into my heart. Together they fill my pages with stories from their time. A romantic tale of hippy love and seventies action packed anarchy with eighties comedic hairstyle woes. With different genres moulding my world. Lectures on ‘how to’ and recipes for living; love drives their emotions which spill onto my pages.

Day by day like a diary I am written. The feeling of unanswered questions and the interpretations of their lives push curiosity to the front of my mind. Now sins become a part of the core, growing to manifest into an illustration of dark colours. 

“Why can’t you tell me how it will end, good or bad?”.

“No-one reads a book when the ending is first; the element of surprise is what keeps us going”. She answers my question leaving me more confused.  

I turn to rebellion as the years pass. Alas, I am carried to a new owner, one who can read what my essence is about. What was written before has come around again. This time the story I tell is understood. The story I read is understood. So the plot thickens and happiness and romance is merged with a new life and a new shelf. Drifting from mark to mark, I am now placed in a different culture. I absorb words that are not understood.  Making them my own by conflict and conduct. We are together, dear author of mine. Ink setting in my pores and leaving a mark that tells of true love and desire. I feel not alone in this lonely new world.

As the years pass, my cover slightly withers. Pages, with corners turned down to show landmarks of birth and death, joy and grief. Tell tale signs of tears fallen, dried and forgotten. The smell of food and love and hatred, all infused within each page. Like a super smell of spice, roses, blood and sweat. The fallen leaves in autumn, turning brown then red then yellow, so do my leaves. As I change from neutral to wrath to mellow as money does not grow on trees. Still I am tightly bound.

I am no longer the hungry caterpillar, munching letter after letter. I have emerged a butterfly, pages like wings, fluttering in the wind. The joyous day arrives, a page is torn. Drifting through whispers to a destiny of their own; to be recycled into a new story.

Further pages tear away and sprout their own leaves. Until one day I lie in my writer’s hands. Feeling their last breath, softly brushing against the words. Then there is silence. No more ink graces my pages as the dirt where my roots once stood swallows the hand that held my heart. Now my journey has stagnated, full stopped in life without any muse. I refuse to be read and refuse to be heard. I return to the shelf with only a memoir of this life.

Years rush by and my cover is tatty and torn. I am left but a withered carcass of missing pages. Full of guilt, rot and drama. Desperate to remember the words which have smudged, leaving unrecognisable images. Some fallen to family discourse and despair, it is all I have now. I can not see the beauty around, I am not willing to try. I recall the contents and glossary, and fall to the pages that are left. I stand on the shelf waiting to be read, with only a glimpse of the past.

The years whither on and finally, I return to the place I was born. Remembering the stories when they were first told. The adventures, the romances, laughter and tears. Looking at the machines that used to pulsate, now echo my name. They beg me to come. So I follow; I am swallowed whole, cover, binding, pages all gone. My heart is still there, mangled and twisted, yet still beating. I emerge not as me but as something new. To be re-written.

Below the Wonderland

Prologue

While watching television I fell asleep and flew across land and sea to a mountain top in Mexico. I sat there for a while and ate my cheese sandwich which was slightly stale. I drank red grapes and sucked hard boiled sweets then up I got and jumped the steep.

Down I fell, faster and faster. No time to scream. No help could I muster. Falling I saw the earth draw near and thought to myself the grass looks so dear. I fell down hard but no bones did I break. The body was swallowed by the luscious green scene. Floating through the soil and dirt. I found myself in a bubble of sort.

The bubble burst when I hit a rocky bottom, leaving me standing in a darkened cave. Stalagmites and stalactites everywhere. I hear trickling water and scratching sounds but also a bird that sings in harmony. A melody that I follow through and through. I reach a flash of fire, centred in a large cave. I felt fear and definitely not brave. The fire burned so bright and high. In the corner I saw a woman cry, with tears of unknown mystery.

I approached cautiously. I remarked casually ‘I am lost, and why do you cry?’

‘I cry for you’ she drooled onto the ground. In this spit merged her tears and together they sizzled and hissed and fizzled away.

‘For me’ I asked watching the mixture hiss and disappear.

‘For you I cry, oh friend of mine. Your soul is trapped down below’.

‘Down below, what do you mean?’.

She said no more but stopped crying. Up she got and walked past me. The fire stood inches away from her. I swear I saw a whisp reach out. She turned her head and smiled at me ‘Go without’. Then leaped into the burning chest.

I stood and watched as she churned and churned and bellowed out while she burned. Surprised at how unnerving it was I cautiously moved to the exit. I entered another cave with nothing but a door. ‘How weird’ I said to the empty surroundings and walked right up and used the knocker. The ring was heavy but cool to touch. A creak, a groan, a stir and clunk. It opened and as such, I stepped in.

This was no cave but a room for the living. Scattered furniture, a bed in the corner, a table, a chair, a single seater, all soft leather stood in front of the fire. ‘Looks inviting’ I thought. A mantle piece so grand and unique, like I have never seen. Then I glimpsed towards the other corner, where sat a plump child, a boy of twelve, maybe younger. He was eating a pie of sorts.

Guzzling at a pace that made me curious. He didn’t notice me as I approached. He just kept on eating, spoon after spoon, quicker and quicker until the pie was completely finished. He looked up then, with tears in his eyes. He burped for at least ten seconds. So loud that I covered my ears and closed my eyes. When the noise had stopped, to my surprise, a thinner version of him sat with a spoon to the ready. And a pie so fresh sat in front and he started again, with a wheeze and a grunt.

I asked ‘Where shall I go?’ with no reply, just a guzzling sound and a mouth full of pie. I walked away back to the door, which was now made of glass. I saw through onto a field full of violets and roses and poppies and posies. A tree in the wind, whistled and waved and then the glass shattered and in front a red path was paved. I walked onto the path into a tunnel with a shimmering light at the end.

I started to run but the light moved further. I ran for a day and then another. I could not stop. Sweat poured, feet bled and still no sign of an end ahead. So I stopped and turned back through the doorway I had exited from. Now entering a room with human heads mounted on the walls. A woman, a child, a man, old, young, freckled skinned, clear and spot free, many different colours; all hung with one thing in common. No eyes.

The empty sockets, dark and deep. I try not to look directly, but it was hard not to peep. I felt their pull. I quickly turned to face away but another wall stood with the dead heads in my way. I look for the exit but instead see a man standing guard. Not giving me the time of day.

He stood tall, elegant, like a statue he be. With white hair and brown eyes and a beard to the knees. He did not look down and did not speak, just looked straight ahead, ignoring me; the cheek.

‘Where shall I go? I asked trying not to cry

The man did not move, neither did I.

I asked once again; still no reply. And then once again, I  did try.

‘Go away little girl your soul is not here. It’s down below’.

‘Where shall I go?’ I started to cry. My tears were falling fast. Within seconds a puddle formed. A shadow was cast.

‘Go away little girl, or else I shall drown. I can not bend or look down. I can not swim and move from this spot. Shoo away little girl, this is all I have got’.

Still the tears fell. The puddle become a pool and then the room started to fill.

‘Where shall I go? I have no guide’ I stutter the words through the whisper of cries.

No reply. I cry louder, like a child wanting a toy.

‘Oh for pity sake. Shut up little girl, try and understand. I can not help you. So please don‘t annoy’.

I look up at him and through the tears, notice him. His eyes are caring his voice is calm. I am full of awe. He is complete, soul and all. Carefully his eyes move in their sockets, then a blink and shudder as his hand tries to move. He looks down, cringing as if in some sort of pain. And places his right hand in his trouser pocket. Another slow movement to restrict his hurt, he pulls out a small pill, all black and shiny. Clenching his eyes he pops it in his mouth. A few seconds pass, or maybe an hour. But suddenly he starts to move with power. He reaches quickly with his hand and grabs mine. I do not struggle, while he shakes himself free. Yelping out in pain every now and again. Eventually, walking straight he takes me to the door. I hadn’t realised before but I’m not crying anymore.

‘You have no idea, what I leave behind, my dear’. He turns to the room but with a gleam in his eyes he bows to the walls and says his goodbyes. ‘I am the head keeper but I keep you no more, so farewell my lovelies, I shall head for the door’. He looks at me and smiles at his irony. He was enchanting to look at. I smile back at him, which makes him abruptly look away with shame. He exits the door, pulling me by his side and we leave the dead heads behind to hide.

We enter a small space, just big enough to squeeze in. We are close to each other, I can feel his breath on my chin. Carefully, he reaches up to grab a thick metal ring, the size of a bracelet. It is attached to a long chain that falls through a hole at the top. ‘Hold me tight’ he whispers in my ear. I do as I’m told, not out of fear but something else in his eyes, clear and concise, innocent and wise. When tightly bound he then pulls on the chain.

With a gush of wind we fall. Fall, down, down deeper into the below. Holding each other tight and tighter still. We fall, until we land hard on a dry dusty hill. I am dizzy and sleepy, so I close my eyes. The darkness overcomes me, which is no surprise.

to be continued.