"Over the moon"

Angie's contribution:

Over the Moon - or in other words delighted, chuffed, thrilled to bits, exultant,. How many times, especially in recent years, we hear this phrase. The sportsman achieving his goal, the employer on being promoted, the bride on her wedding day, the mother looking at her new born child, the lottery winner, etc. Infact all of us, at some time in our lives have been Over the Moon. Delirious with happiness, beside ourselves with joy. There is now though, perhaps more than ever before, an expectation that we should experience this emotion not just once or twice in a lifetime but at regular intervals and perhaps with minimum effort on our part. Maybe the phrase has been watered down in fact. Perhaps, to some extent, it is the invidiousness of adverts which underpins this expectation. If you buy the right sofa,  washing powder, bed, supermarket food, beauty product or even air freshener, you will indeed be Over the Moon. Bowled over by the comfort/brightness/cleanliness/ tastiness/ transformation etc. To the naive and gullible the other promoter of 'Over the Mooness' is the celebrity culture. The idea that once you are famous( no matter for what  or how earned) you will automatically be utterly happy. In spite of the stories they hear of celebrity downfall it is still seen by many as the magic elixir that will bring day long happiness and a life of luxury. Another, even more recent, is the social media phenomenon where the fortunate display their good news in words and pictures and the 'followers' emulate in droves, all vying to show the most exciting/ glamourous/ enviable/ unattainable/ just beyond reach portrayals of areas of their lives where they are 'over the moon ' Seeing the number of people now sleeping rough on our streets one wonders what would make them 'over the moon'. The obvious one, to be told they need never again be exposed to the elements, or suffer the ignominy of having to beg. Or hearing of all the immigrants dispossessed, widowed, orphaned and worse. Over the Moon? Just to be a family again in a safe place would be that and more. They have just raised millions of pounds in the UK with their TV appeal for the charity 'Save the Children'. We see films of children who have to act as carers to a single sick or disabled parent, children devastated by disease or deformity, children abused physically and mentally. Over the Moon for them? Just a normal healthy family life. This Christmas many people will be 'over the moon' having received the desired gift, partied, over indulged, dressed in shimmering finery and basked in the presence of their loved ones.  For whatever reason though, many will not. There will always be those whose lives did not deliver, from no fault of their own.  Life is not fair, more of a cosmic lottery. Ironic, since the cosmos is seen to be a complex and ordered system, the opposite of chaos. The Moon, one satellite orbiting planet earth. When the 16th century nonsense rhyme appeared, and the cow jumped over the Moon, little did they know how much knowledge man would acquire, how he would walk on the moon, and fly around it and be conversant with its structure. Those astronauts were indeed - over the moon. ______________________________________________________________ Jackie It was in the middle of the night when my family and myself finally managed to attempt to make the crossing.    The water was calm when we started out but the boat was for 6 people and we were 25  and didn’t know any of the other refugees.  I was only ten years old but I realised from the tension in my fathers face that this was a running for your life situation.   I clung to my mother and the small bundle she clutched that was my new baby sister.  I knew the boat was made of wood as I could dig my fingernails into the side of the railings when there was a particularly aggressive wave.  We huddled together as best we could and looked up at the sky, the moon gave little comfort playing hide and seek with us in the clouds as we prayed silently for a safe journey.  When the storm started up the boat began to rock gently back and forth with the waves -,  Chug chug and splutter we could all hear that the engine of the boat was having problems.   - a few sparks flew into the sea like stars in the sky of back home.     We had only been going for 30 minutes or so.   Then there was silence, a silence only broken by the wash of the waves against our fragile wooden vessel .   Then someone managed to start the engine and It was pleasant enough , I felt that the journey would be bearable;   but then  the wind gathered strength in minutes -  it became like a combination of a washing machine and eternal roller coaster.    The froth was spraying all around and constant water was coming over the top of the boat making it very difficult to see.  The ship was going up and down 30+ meters constantly.   We were all thrown against each other as  the ups and downs were accompanied by many jerks,  as waves on the swells pushed the boat around.   UP and down up and down…… This reminded me of home - of my playmates;  when my cousin and I had played with the old fallen oak tree using it as a see-saw, balancing on the stone in old Mary’s garden.    I thought of my cousin with envy now,  she was probably sitting outside her hut this very moment - drawing in the street dirt or playing with the pigs.    It was almost impossible to get real sleep;   those who called themselves “crew”  fell  into a halfway state of being part awake and part comatose.   Fear gripped me - I felt scared, so scared that I’m ashamed to say my bowels gave out on me  several times.  I wanted the voyage to be over - to arrive and put my feet on firm earth, I wanted the world to stop churning;  in the end I felt drained of all emotion except for the anticipation of arrival in a new country.  I heard someone say they had checked our location on the GPS on their phone and we were exactly between Turkey and Greece.    White foam sprayed and flew everywhere and looked like the soapsuds that Granny used to wash the dishes with at home.   Great gusts of wind gathered the sea and slapped us like wet sheets on the washing line.    By this time we were going up and down several meters constantly and my stomach was protesting - I felt dizzy with nausea and watched as my parents hung on to themselves and their possessions - mother clutching her newborn trying to feed her in the bouncing boat,  father straining to see in the blackness of the night.   Then the big one.   The wave of all waves - it was as high as mountain Glory near our village back home - water swirled down onto our small vessel - I can hear the cries to this day of horror and disbelief as it engulfed us entirely drowning our ability to hold on - pounded away human life and expectations - took away tiny possessions wrapped in paper or thin blankets - scattered family’s hopes and dreams. Years later, I sit in my comfortable room  - I have a job, a wife and my own child of 10 years old.   I have never been back to my country as the pain of loosing my family that devastating night to the fury of the sea is too much to bear.              The moon, only witness to my fate has my family imprinted on its face and I take comfort that one day I shall soar into the sky and over that moon to join them. _____________________________________________________________________________ I was on my honeymoon And it was the monsoon Clothes strewn and me in a swoon I didn’t see you at first ‘cause It was the afternoon Then like a balloon Shining on the lagoon Because, You see It’t was the month of June You shone so bright A reflection on my teaspoon And I looked up to my My new groom Who then used his spittoon And I raised my head And wished I was Over that moon ______________________________________________________________________ Over the Moon by Annemarie In the playground the whisperings, nudgings and furtive glances of the children were directed at Robert. He stood by himself murmuring: " Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." Then the school bell clanged loud and clear, the children running, pushing and shoving to get into line before being called in to afternoon class....Except for one small boy, secreted behind the door of the boiler room. When all was quiet and empty he slipped stealthily behind the building, climbed the fence separating the small village school from the surrounding pastureland and sidled off along the edge of the field towards the wood. The trees were already black skeletal prints against a clear blue autumnal sky, the lower branches still clinging on to a few copper and bronze leaves, the ground below carpeted in amber and gold. Robert trudged to the gap in the hedge murmuring to himself all the while "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." He crawled through the brambles and undergrowth, thorns tugging at his clothes and reached a path which led to a clearing in the copse, where an old man sat on a stool, rhythmically shaving slivers off a long piece of newly sawn elm. Around him were hand-crafted chairs, a table and half-finished wooden objects. This was Robert's secret place, this was Robert's secret  friend. He crept into the clearing and watched while Mr Ackerman worked. When the old man had finished working the piece of elm, he lifted his grizzled head, looked at Robert and said, "Well, Robert, this is a surprise. You've not been for a while. No school today?" "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly," murmured Robert. ”And why is that, young lad?" asked Mr Ackerman. Robert stood before the old man, staring at him. The eight-year old boy stroked the newly-shaved piece of elm and said quietly, "The other children say I am stupid. I can't play properly. I can't play properly. I can't do school. I can't do school. I don't want to do school." "Now listen here, young Robert, don't let nobody tell you you can't do anything. We are all good at something so don't you listen to those voices that tell you otherwise. Now let's you and me make something with all these beautiful things nature has given us."  And the old man gathered up various pieces of sawn wood, the scent of which still mingled with the Autumn air and he placed them on the soil in front of Robert. The boy put down his school bag. He carefully collected and stacked in size and in colour - gold burgundy, orange - the fallen leaves which spattered  the soil. He picked up the pieces of wood, sorted them into their different types and laid them in lines, all the time sing-songing to himself "Ash and elm, oak and sycamore, birch and willow,   Trees in the wood, trees in the gardens and trees in the meadow, " just as Mr Ackerman had sung and taught him their 'wood song'. From the lines of wood he had so carefully arranged he picked various pieces and formed the outline of a house. From the stacks of leaves he selected an especially large, deep crimson maple leaf for the door and four narrow, lime-green willow leaves for four narrow windows  He scoured round the cabin and from his found treasures finished decorating his house of wood. "Well, young Robert, isn't that the most handsome house ye've built! And all by yourself. Shall we now make a sign for your house?" Together they rubbed smooth a piece of ash, scratched Robert's name in another small piece of wood which they then attached to the newly prepared post and stuck it in the ground next to Robert's design. Then Mr Ackerman poured two mugs of homemade apple  juice and the two sat companionably by the open fire each lost in his own little world.    Meanwhile pandemonium had broken out at school with the discovery that Robert was missing. The playground teacher did not want to admit that she had taken her eyes off the children, particularly Robert, whilst she had a quick catch-up with Facebook and none of the children had seen Robert since playtime when ” he sulked, miss, and  went away because he can't play properly like we said". This was not the first time he had disappeared but it was the longest that he had been missing. His parents had been called and after several hours' search by all and sundry his father remembered the mysterious blocks of polished wood which had appeared in Robert's room and his son's fanciful tales of a very old man with a grey beard who lived in the middle of the wood. Setting off with his torch he followed a path from the back of the garden which led to the wood. In the mild moonshine night puddles from the previous day's rain were dark and mirror-like. He searched through the trees shining the beam here and there, calling his son's name. The father continued further into the wood and then in the stillness he heard a faint high-pitched voice and then low gruff tones. He followed the sounds, crunching twigs and leaves underfoot. The full moon was now higher up in the darkened sky and as he approached the clearing he saw a ramshackle cabin lit by the glow of a wood-stove fire. Outside he saw the silhouette of young and old against the moonlight as they both leapt in the air. The father stood very still watching, listening. "There you see, young Robert, you can do so many things. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, " said old Mr Ackerman, as holding hands, the old man and the little boy once again jumped over the moon, so perfectly reflected in the big back puddle.

Story : A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step

Angel's story:


A thousand miles, that's how long they told her the distance was. The space on earth between her and the mother she'd never seen. The authorities had been quick to point out all the disadvantages and risks of making this journey, Of finding out for herself what this woman was like who had given her away at birth and never once, in the next thirty years, tried to find out anything about her first born child.
It had taken Sarah a very long time to get to this point. The point at which she felt ready to face possible rejection for a second time in her life.
Her mother was not initiating this, it was her. The persistent nagging questions that had nibbled away under the surface her whole life, were now becoming more insistent, more intrusive, to the point where Sarah felt she must do something. She must take the initiative and try to see her biological mother , to find out once and for all why she was rejected, if the story she had been told was true and if by some miracle this woman longed to meet her but had not found the courage to try.

Like so many women it was not until Sarah herself had become a mother that her own parents, her bloodline, had really become a burning issue. Before that it was like a familiar little ache, always there, sometimes more noticeable but possible to forget. Since holding Emily in her arms seconds after she had emerged, slippery, warm and hungry, her need to know who had held her in that way became far more urgent.
When the midwife had asked her if there were many redheads in her family she couldn't say and later, when a doctor had tested Emily's eyes and asked if there was a history of shortsightedness in the family, she again felt that disassociation with her inheritance, her forebears.
It was these events in the end that had prompted Sarah to start the search for her biological mother and now, here she was, armed with the information, with a name and an address making it feel real for the first time. She had considered writing first but feared that rejection at the first hurdle might be a possibility she'd rather not risk.
So, here she was, packed and ready to leave for the airport, her husband Mike being his usual supportive encouraging self, having taken time off work to be with Emily. His advice had been realistic; don't expect too much. It's not always like you see on the TV reunion programs. Be prepared for disappointment.

As she felt the plane's wheels leave the ground and saw the landscape below fast dwindling into a patchwork of greens and browns she felt the first twinge of anxiety and slight loss of resolve. She was heading for the south of France a place she had never visited. Her French was limited to GCSE level and she was just depending on the natives having better English in the tourist area to which she was heading.

She had no idea why her mother had ended up here but she hoped very much to find out.
After what seemed to her an age but was actually less than two hours  they landed, and in no time Sarah, with no hold luggage to collect, was outside the terminal, embraced by the heat and light that accosted her senses.
In the midst of the turmoil all around her, with everyone seemingly talking at the top of their voices in an intelligible language, she managed to hail a taxi and show the driver the address.  He fed it into his sat nav. and they set off at an alarmingly fast pace. Sarah was to get a very quick introduction at first hand to the driving habits of the Marseillaise. Either they were inches behind the car ahead or she could feel the car behind almost bumper to bumper.
With her heart mostly in her mouth, she gripped on to her seat belt and was very relieved when they were forced to slow down as they headed to the centre of town passing the beautiful port and the church perched high above.

As they entered a narrow street with pastel coloured houses the driver pulled up upside a Boulangerie. Sarah was about to try to question the driver when she noticed the number on the wall, it was indeed the right address though she had had  no idea it was a shop.

She fumbled in her purse for the correct number of euros, probably grossly over tipping and then she was alone staring through the windows and seeing a woman serving behind the counter. She waited for the customer to emerge and then with a deep breath she entered the dark warm yeast scented interior. As the woman looked up Sarah caught her breath as she saw her daughter Emily in this smiling welcoming face.

 In those few seconds that it takes for the mind to register enormous truths Sarah saw that this lady too had recognised something in her face.

'Mon dieu!' She said automatically, 'ce n'est pas vrai!'

'So you know who I am?' said Sarah, not really daring to hope she was going to be well received, or even understood, her hands gripping the counter and her heart thumping in her chest.

'I see who you are but I cannot believe this is happening.  I have thought about you so much and for so long but I knew it was just a cross I must bear.'
She looked anxiously behind her.
My husband knows nothing of my past. I could never tell him.
It is hard for you to understand but he is from an old, very close and very proud Marseillaise family.
I can't speak to you here.

Sarah's heart was just flooded with relief. The only thing she needed to hear was that her mother loved and thought of her.

Just then a customer entered the shop.

'Can you meet me somewhere later this evening?' She asked quickly. 'This is the address of my hotel.'

'Yes, of course I'll try but it can't be for long.'

And so it was, that five hours later, Sarah sat in her room with the woman she never really thought she would ever see, side by side on the bed hungrily digesting each other's words.
Her mother had become pregnant by a young boy of whom her parents had not approved and she was forced to let the baby go which nearly tore her apart.
So angry was she with her parents that as soon as she could she had left home to au pair in France never returning and gradually losing contact. She had met her French husband as she bought the bread at his father's shop which had now become theirs. They had not been able to have children which had added to her mother's sadness and she had never once mentioned the baby she had left.
For Sarah to be able to tell her that she now had a granddaughter was for her a miracle beyond belief.
Every now and then one or other would burst into fresh tears of joy and they would have to embrace again.

All too soon Sarah's mother Judy had to leave for fear her husband Lionel would be suspicious.

It was agreed they could meet one more time before Sarah left.

In that second meeting they talked of how they might keep in touch.
Sarah was not going to lose this mother she had never known and against all the odds they would make it work.

She would go home but she would come back with Emily and Mike and they would find a way to become closer to this French family and Emily would get to know her grandmother in her exotic town with her French ways and with so much love to give this child, one she never knew existed and could never have hoped ever to hold in her arms as one day she would.



Annemarie's story:

Deep snow had fallen during the night and winter's skeleton black trees stood scribbled against a blanket of silvery grey sky. The woman lit the logs in the big brick fireplace and pulled out her latest piece of patchwork. She had used at least sixty carefully chosen different small prints, the colours subtle and the designs exquisite ( her daughter was afters all a textile designer herself. Six of each design made a rosette, all of which were linked together with one unifying colour. Most of the piecing together she had completed at her quilting club, where she went in actual fact to learn French from a lot of chattering women (to say nothing of eating cake and drinking fairly unpleasant caramel tea at the end of each session!). Now it was a race to quilt the patchwork, the wadding and the lining together with a tiny running stitch which more often than not involved stabbing her finger. As she stitched away she remembered three years earlier when Suzie had come over for five glorious weeks with the first granddaughter. Oh how adorable Lola was - all dimples - dimples on her face , dimples on her elbows and dimples at her knees as she kicked her chubby legs in the air. That had been a cold, snowy January, Lola just a few weeks old.

"Mum," Suzie had said "I've been given all these beautiful Liberty prints, two whole books of samples and everyone different and I thought you could show me how to make a patchwork quilt for Lola. I remember when I was quite young you started one for your mother but I don't think you ever finished it. We could do them together,"

The woman had rummaged in various boxes in the attic  and eventually found a bag stuffed with oddments of fabric, bits of patchwork half done and pieces merely tacked around paper  hexagons.The half-finished quilt had lain abandoned and forgotten for over twenty years. 

  She had pulled out the tangled, crumpled mess of fabric, picked up one of the loose hexagons and let a surprised gasp.

"Just look at this, Suzie. You won't believe it - the very first piece I picked up after all these years, just look at the backing paper and remember It was over twenty years ago with no thought of grandchildren or that we would be living in France.." She had held up the tacked hexagon of fabric and Suzie read written in bold letters on the paper backing, the name 'Lola', the paper having been cut from a French magazine.

"That is weird, "  Suzie had said. "Where would you even have got a French magazine and then to have your first granddaughter's name on the first piece you pick up twenty years later! It's not as if Lola was a common name then. It's  a double premonition; sends a shiver down my back! Well you can start me on mine and then you can finish yours. "

Together they had stitched and quilted and chatted through that cold January spell and Suzie had finished a beautiful cot quilt for Lola and the woman had finished after twenty odd years, the quilt for her own mother. It turned out to be be the present that had pleased her mother more than any other.

Now three years later the woman reckoned she could just about finish this quilt to celebrate Suzie's two children, before the family arrived for Christmas although her more knowledgable friends at the patchwork club estimated it would take a little longer.

Well she would just keep on stitching and stitching, keep on adding plasters to the pricked fingers so determined she was to complete it .

As she pushed and pulled the needle through the three layers she remembered aged six, sitting at the old oak table with her own mother learning to sew. She could see herself, head bent in concentration as her chubby fingers tried to hold the two pieces of fabric together and at the same time push the needle through from one side and almost simultaneously pull it out from the other side. There had been moments of frustration and  a few tears as she had  not been a patient child. Since then she'd stitched away at many quilts using favourite old dresses and shirts to make material memories for her own children, a wedding quilt for her brother and now this the largest so far for her own dear daughter. As she worked the thread through the patchwork, in, out in, out, she  thought she and her needle must have trudged at least a thousand miles from that first  step into patchwork at the old oak dining table fifty odd years ago, a thousand miles of shared memories to pass on to another generation. She pulled the last tiny knot through and  cut the thread  - the quilting was finished and she hurriedly folded it and hid it as she heard her husband open the door, an icy blast heralding the arrival of the young family. And yes, her patchwork friends were right - she had not completed the quilt.; just edge needed  binding but she had managed to add the names of her two grandchildren.

Eight word story September 2017

Story submitted by Angela:


They could not believe their ears! Their precious daughter had been allocated a place in the countryside!
All around them now in the heart of London was death and devastation. For the parents their was no choice but to stay, as thousands of others were and pray that they would somehow be lucky. That they would live to see the end of this horrific war and one day life might be normal again.

For their daughter though, this was a chance to ensure her safety and not have the constant fear of her short life being ended almost before it had begun.

When they told the ten year old Margaret that she was to leave next week with lots of other evacuees her response was of course to cling to her mother and beg not to be sent away.
Her pleadings had to be in vain for her own sake and she found herself a week later on the station with fifty or so other children all with their gas masks and little suitcases or in some cases just a large cloth bag, the best that could be found at short notice in poorer households.

Margaret had begun to see that their was no escape from the terrifying ordeal which was to befall her. Being a naturally positive child and of a sunny disposition she tried hard to be brave and not to show her dear parents the depths of her fear and feeling of loneliness. She hugged them both, smiling valiantly through her tears.
'I'll be ok Ma. Write to me won't you. Bye Dad'
She was the apple of her dad's eye and he fought back the tears as he watched her go.

The train trundled them out of London; gradually the tall grey buildings gave way to smaller houses, rows of them, and then things began to get greener and the space wider. There were fields with cows and little villages with church spires in the distance.

As they disembarked and stood on the station, name tags hanging from their necks, identification for prospective foster parents, they were a forlorn and sorry sight.

A kind looking lady came towards Margaret.
'Hello my dear, I think you are to be the new member of our family. My husband has the car nearby we'll soon get you home.'
Inspite of herself and the hole of emptiness within her being, Margaret  liked this lady and had never ridden in a car.

They walked outside to the waiting car and the lady helped Margaret into the back seat with her things.
'This is my husband Jack, you can call him Uncle Jack and I'm Auntie Johnnie.

There is someone else waiting to meet you at home whom I think you'll like very much.'
Margaret sat, nestled in the soft leather seats and looking out of the windows as they sped along the winding roads, finally turning into a narrow bumpy road and stopping near the end at a lovely black and white house with a big garden.  A path bordered with bright flowers led to the front door up three wide round steps with a porch above. Margaret, coming from her tenement building in central London had seen nothing like it in her life and if only her parents had been with her to share it, it would have been Nirvana!

Auntie Johnnie, ( it would be a while before she could call her that naturally) opened the door and all at once something black and white and furry flung itself at them, barking with joy.
'This is Susie Margaret! She is a Cocker Spaniel and just loves children'
Some more of Margaret's fear and tension melted away as she buried her face in the fur of this ecstatic little dog with the long floppy ears and fiercely wagging stump of a tail. She had always longed to own a dog, she adored them, but never in her wildest dreams did she think it would be possible.

'Come and see the garden my dear, Susie needs to go out side, and she will show you around'
They had now walked through the hall to the kitchen and as they walked out through the back door and onto a verandah, looking out over more green lawn than Margaret had ever seen, her last fears receded and she raced after Susie who had found a ball and was looking for someone to throw it.
All round the house they ran, because the garden did indeed surround it on all sides. Past the back gate, past uncle Jack's veggie plot back across the front lawn and arriving panting at the back door.
Auntie Johnnie had made orangeade to drink and rich tea biscuits. When she had finished it was time to be shown her bedroom, up the big curving stairs and into a bright light room with a pretty wallpaper on the walls and a big satin eiderdown on the  bed. It was so much more than Margaret had ever seen and  by this time her heart was bursting with so many mixed emotions.
She had not wanted to come here one bit and she could not understand why her parents had wanted to send her away.
Yet now, with this kind couple in their beautiful heavenly home it just might not be so bad and if her ma and pa could come to visit sometimes, that would be just wonderful.

She smiled up at the lady standing beside her with her hand gently on Margaret's shoulder.
'It's just perfect. Thank you so much. I was so scared and sad but now I don't feel so bad and I can write to my ma and pa and tell them everything'
' Of course you can and one day we hope they will come to see you and you can show them around can't you.'
There are terrible things happening in London and it's because they love you so much that they have sent you to us.

I don't have a daughter of my own and I am very lucky that they have lent you to me. I think we're going to have fun together and do lots of lovely things. We have nature all around us and their is so much you can learn when you walk in the woods or by the river or through the meadow. The birds and small creatures who hide away, the trees and wild flowers, they are all there for you to discover. We will make you a country lass before you know it!



 The grey haired woman leant back in her chair, the photo album lying in her lap. All those years ago and yet it seemed to her, as she was nearing the end of her life, only yesterday that she had first met that couple and entered their family.
As she had come to love them and belong to them she had slowly become a child of that place. Her life changed in every way. She had made new friends at school, begun to shine in some subjects and at sports and was adored by her foster parents.
Then one day it had all ended almost as quickly as it had begun. She'd had to leave all that had become dear to her and go back to the dreary greyness of her London home. She was a young teenager by then, a child no longer and she was utterly torn when the wrench came.
She remembered it being never the same again at home. She could not forget the comfort, the space, the light of the country. Her parents had found it hard to understand and were often hurt. They had had their own problems, left to endure the war and her father, injured in a bombing raid, was a shadow of his former self.

Yes, she thought as she began to drift into sleep, keeping her safe through the war had come at a huge price and the ripple effect of pain to all those affected was wider than could be imagined.
Yet, she had had a good enough life, modest in all ways but with love and affection and now and then some special treats to mark out the years.
Life is not fair she thought but making the best of what you do have and not hankering for what you can't was what counted in the long run. She saw herself, running again around the garden on that first day in the country, twirling around with Susie at her heels, twirling and spinning, laughing and looking up at the clear blue sky.



Jackie's story:

The dogs ears were trailing in the mud.  Burs, thorns and branches trailing under his tummy, mixed with dirt and gravel glued together with slobber.  His ears were in shreds having run through thorn bushes and brambles  -  blood and saliva made bloody patches on  the freshly cut grass in Mr. And Mrs Gobby’s lovely garden.

“Nobody” the pale pink orphaned rabbit was zigzagging for his life amongst cabbages, radishes, and around the gooseberry bush.  

By the time he had run three times round the garden - rabbit’s  tongue was hanging out of his mouth …his nose quivering with fear .  He could smell the sweat and hear the breathlessness of the big heavy dog pursuing him.   Several times he swerved just in time to avoid those yellow jaws with  foul smelling  breath ready to bite off his pretty bubbly tail - pink and fluffy from grooming just this morning.    Rabbit sprinted and dodged his stalker,  he could hear the heavy chomps and clumps of the dogs muzzle.    He could feel the dogs claws getting closer and closer digging into the earth as he stretched his short but sturdy legs and strained to catch the baby rabbit.    
In his haste he ran through and out the other side of the big blackcurrant bush that had grown as tall as a tree.    As Mr and Mrs Gobby didn’t like blackcurrants,  it was full of very ripe fruit dripping with juice  falling on the ground in a pulpy mass.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Mr Gobby had got up early that morning.  Unable to sleep the previous night thinking about that fox who had slipped through the hole in the bottom garden gate killing off two of his best egg laying chickens.  He was up at the crack of dawn determined to put a stop to this massacre that would surely get worse.   So armed with tools, he set off to nail up and secure that hole for good.   Just at that same moment he tripped over a very small rabbit running full speed who crossed his  path just before the rose bush.  Then, a pounding and thundering of paws deafened his ears.   Astonished he swirled around  just in time to avoid a large dog with long floppy ears baring down the path.   Teeth barred and fire in his eyes,  his slobbering drool  left a trail of silvery dribble hanging in the air in steamy droplets.

Rabbit rushed through the blackcurrant bush - turned around twice and was immediately covered from head to toe in the ripe black juice.   As he shot out of the other side the dog ground to a halt by the sight of a black  wet rabbit.  What had happened to the fluffiness - that pretty pink rabbit he had been chasing?    He sniffed and caught the rather acrid smell of blackcurrants, and his appetite disappeared in a flash.    It stopped him in his tracks.  
 Rabbit seized the moment  which gave him just enough time to dash for the hole garden gate.    Instinct told him that the big heavy dog wouldn’t stand a chance of getting through that splintered plank. 
Mr Gobby advanced with a determined step - the now black rabbit crisscrossed his path and Mr Gobby thought it was the fox - raising his hammer he slammed it down…..

Rabbit sat on his haunches,  nose trembling in delight,  he washed his paws and sighed once again.  He had attained Nirvana, tranquility and heavenly paradise. 

Short story theme - "I remember when"

Angie
Subject: I remember when

I remember when Easter was full of sunshine and my beautiful sugar egg had a window at one end to peep inside and see the chicks. When there were cowslips everywhere, and everything seemed fresh and yellow.

I remember when, playing in the field of Michaelmas daisies at the end of our road, I found a dead baby rabbit and proudly took it home to show my mother. How she shrieked and recoiled in horror that germs were being brought near her new baby, the precious bundle whose nappy she was changing.

I remember when I got into the school taxi on a whim, and passed my mother struggling up the hill pushing the big bassinet pram to meet me, as she always did. When the driver asked for my address I could only tell him, 'the house on the corner in the stoney road'. Perhaps the long wait for my mother's return, and the dread of her anger was punishment enough, memory blurs......... perhaps the kindly neighbour who found me crying by the back door helped to diffuse the wrath!

I remember when my grandma had her bed in our lounge. One day I saw her very old and wrinkled bottom as she was about to use the commode next to her bed.
She wasn't with us for very long before she died but she gave me two shillings to spend at the fair.
I remember the smell of carnations on the day of her funeral, they still smell of that day, seventy years on.

I remember when my mother was terribly upset because something very sad had happened to a pretty lady who lived with her husband in a big house down the road. She had a beautiful charm bracelet that jangled as she moved her arm.It was years later they told me she had shot herself.

I  remember when we went to the shops. The grocer's that had a wooden pillar which I swung round by one hand till I was dizzy, while my mother waited for him to slice his tight wire through the cheese.
I remember when, at those shops, I was terrified by the lady who pushed a pram with a witch inside. The pram was big and the hood was up but the witch sat upright, peering over a tightly pulled cover, just her pale white face, straight thin ginger hair and a brown beret. I utterly dreaded seeing that pram every time we went shopping.

I remember when, in spite of these fears, and even with the arrival of the new baby,  the days were full of sunshine, happiness and joy.

I remember when everything changed. We no longer lived in the big house on the corner in the stoney road, but in a tarmac road, in a row of houses all the same shape, with no fields anywhere and busy roads close by with red buses, trolley buses and people rushing to get to places, it was the town.

I remember when school changed from my small private house in grounds,  to a huge cold grey stone Victorian building, where you could get lost in the corridors and where boys fought till they bled in the playground. Where school lunches were so horrible I walked home but that meant another terror! I might see a man called Norman who grinned at me and talked rubbish and petrified me half to death!

I remember when I left that school after just one year to go to a very different one, just for girls up to eighteen, all in such an enormous building with a gallery around a huge hall and classrooms everywhere on two levels. With teachers who were very strict and prefects who had lots of power, and rules for everything, from which shoes you wore for what, to when you couldn't talk or run or eat or be late.

I remember when I started to have asthma. Breathing became a thing to have to work at, each breath an effort, straining to get enough oxygen but too tight to let the air out. Shoulders hunched and just walking was so hard when it was bad.

I remember when life was all joy before I was eight years old.
When I knew lots of the families in the stoney road. When Mr Petley the green grocer came every week with his cart and beautiful black horse and I could give him a carrot.
When my father pedalled home from work up the road from the station and wore long johns in the winter and sometimes brought me a new book to read.
When the two old ladies opposite, Miss Paidy and Miss  Durey came out every evening to call in their cat in their sing song way 'puss puss puss puss pussy'
When Mrs Morant, the widow who lived in the quaint and charming cottage by the woods, came to bring us red currant jelly she had made from her fruit and stayed for a chat with my mother.
Her daughter had died of a bad illness and she seldom saw her son but she was sweet and calm and gentle.

I remember when the end of childhood heralded the start of responsibility and pressure and expectation and reality. Unlucky are those who don't at least start with those years of freedom.


Jackie:



Letter to my Mother
Hi Mom,

Look at me!   I’m all grown up and I’m even so grown up that I can call myself a Senior person.    I have children and grandchildren of my own - they are your family too, although you are no longer there to see them. 

Since I saw you last I have had such a very full life - I’m now officially a permanent resident in my adopted country of France - a European citizen.  
I have put into practice all the things you taught me in our short time together.  I missed every second of your not being there though to help me on my way.

  I was working in a London hospital,  I was 17 years old and the Californian university, my life, my friends had all stopped abruptly when you became ill and we had to move back to England after having settled there 10 years previously. 
To work. 
I remember when Dad telephoned on that fateful day just a few days after your own forty forth birthday in 1968 to say that you had gone to join the God you had so intensely worshipped - the God you had said would save you had we prayed and prayed.   And so we did;   we went to Evensong, spent hours in the confessional, recited Hail Mary’s galore, attended low Mass then high Mass.    You had said that if I was good it would all work out and you would be saved.    But it didn’t turn out that way.    God must have been occupied with someone else that day.   I wasn’t even there to hold your hand as you had been there for me those growing years.
 My first job was in the typing pool of the Neurological Hospital in Queen’s Square, London.   It was grim.    Together with the fluorescent strip lighting - the bruised yellowing London sky barely showing through the only window high up on a cheerless ink-splattered wall,  didn’t compare to the Californian sunshine I had grown up with.
The clic clack of typewriters, the chainsaw sound of the return carriages at the end of every typed phrase,  as 20 or so women in that dim room  printed the fate of the hospital patients and deafened any feelings of homelessness. 
  

Mourning is private work and as I walked aimlessly round and round the London streets that day after Dad had told me of your death,  it was impossible to cry,  the reality of my grief was too unreal.
I kept “remembering when”;   our shopping days, my hand in yours, your sewing my clothes, you teaching me manners, the praying and more praying in church - your protecting my girlhood - our trips together youth hosteling - our walks and searches for crabs and pebbles on our travelled beaches. 

I ask myself  :   is it good to “remember when” ? - is it ok to go back into one’s past and cry a little - tie your stomach in knots with heart rendering frustration that all those years have gone by like a flash and looking back is so hard .  I can feel your gaze on me Mom, ( yes I can still say that word after all these years)  you are in spirit still attentively guiding me through my life .    Yet, I ask, is it so necessary to attach oneself to one’s past life to reflect and “remember when” … but then … listen …a soft tinkle of laughter comes fluttering down from above through my memory - floating down in and out of the years like the slow clearing of morning mist over the Golden Gate bridge and “I remember when” for a moment,  my tears flow.   This life goes on, I laugh, I cry,  but I will never say goodbye. 

Annemarie:


 I remember when...
>>
>> Andrea packed the car with her homemade lemon drizzle cake, Gran's favourite, and some velvety,crimson roses with an intoxicating scent. She popped a small overnight case in the boot and set off in eager anticipation. She had always adored her elegant grandmother. Some  of her friends' mothers  faced their twilight years with glum endurance, complaining about the young, drugs, sex and computers, whilst sat in their beige stretch slacks in their high-backed chairs watching endless replays of their favourite tv programmes. Gran on the other hand had her own Facebook page and with Andrea's help was committing her memories to print. She had led a colourful and eventful life but their seemed to be somewhat of a mystery surrounding her time as the ship's matron on a grand liner, which ran luxury cruises to China  back in the thirties and Andrea hoped to unveil the secrets.
>> Although it was almost a year since seeing her Gran looked as effortlessly elegant as usual and despite her eighty-six years, spry and agile as she welcomed her granddaughter with a beaming smile., her very short, funky haircut exaggerating the wonderful high cheekbones. She was wearing a pair of smart black slacks and over a black vest an unbuttoned blue shirt which exactly mirrored her still clear, nforget-me-not blue eyes.
>> "Well, my darling Andrea! This is a lovely surprise. And my favourite cake! We'll  have to tuck into that with a cup of coffee. The roses are divine and so fragrant. Now, you put your case upstairs - your usual room- whilst I make the coffee."
>> Five minutes later Andrea came downstairs and found her grandmother in the garden reading a book.
>> "Where's the coffee then, Gran?"
>> "Oh, Andrea it's so wonderful to see you. Of course I'lll go and make some coffee."
>> "And I'll cut the cake, shall I?" asked  Andrea.
>> She carried the tray with the delicate bone china cups, silver teaspoons and flower-patterned plates, which must have been at least as old as Gran and probably older, into the sitting room, the French doors opening onto the lush green garden.
>> " Gran, I do love that photo of you taken before you met Gramps. Where was it taken? You look so incredibly happy and far too young to be a matron!"?
>> " Oh, my dear, that was such a long time ago, when I was working on the liners. Only the very rich and well-heeled could afford to travel then. I really saw  the world - all quite different from now. That photo, I think, was taken in China and what a country! The petite Chinese women in their beautiful costumes, faded Russian countesses who'd escaped the revolution, stalwart English missionaries come to show the Chinese our ways , always thinking they know best...Hmmm!"
>> The old lady fell silent, her eyes seemingly gazing into a distant past.
>> "What was life like for you on the liner, Gran?" asked Andrea.
>> "Oh  Andrea, it's so lovely to see you! Would you like some coffee?"
>> "Oh, Gran, I've had enough, thank you. You were telling me about your life on the liner going to China ."
>> " Oh yes, I remember ...Peking , what a country China was in the thirties!  So many people and such diverse cultures. On the way out there the liner had  taken a new young doctor on board. All the nurses were in love with him."
>> "And were you too, Gran?" Perhaps this was the mystery in Gran's life, that had always been hinted at, thought Andrea.
>> "Was I what, dear?"
>> "Were you in love with the dashing doctor?"
>> "Which doctor, Andrea? "
>> "The doctor on board the ship to China, when all the nurses fell in love with him."
>> "Oh that doctor!  My he was a good looking young man. Tall, dark hair with a hint of auburn, eyes so deep and brown you could drown in them. I remember he had this scar like a tear, down his cheek. We all thought he must have got it in the War. Now I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone before, Andrea, but I'm an old lady now, so I think the time has come to let you into my secret. Gordon was the love of my life. Now don't think I didn't love your grandfather. On the contrary we had one of the happiest marriages, so many interesting years together..." And Gran was off in another reverie, eyes  focussed again on some distant past.
>> "Tell me more, Gran. Did you not think of marrying the doctor? Is this something we should be noting for your book of memories? Gran..?"
>> Andrea waited , the old lady still lost in thought. She gently touched her grandmother's be-ringed, slender but slightly bony hand and her grandmother gave a slight star.
>> "Oh, Andrea, it's so lovely to see you. Would you like a coffee? "
>> "We have just had coffee, remember Gran. You were telling me about the love of your life, the doctor on board ship...? said Andrea.
>> "Yes, dear ...well, yes I remember ... when I was a young woman. I've never told anyone else. There was a new handsome young doctor on board ship and we fell in love, desperately in love. I remember when we reached Peking we spoke of marriage... Have I told you how wonderful Peking was in those days, the Chinese women in their traditional costume, poor Russian countesses who had escaped the Revolution with little but their furs and jewels. The city was split into different quarters, different nationalities in each."
>> "And that's where you fell in love with  the dashing doctor?" asked Andrea. She felt that at last Gran's mystery was unravelling
>> "What a wonderful time we spent there, I think about a week. I can still remember the scent of spices, the vibrant silks, the Chinese women shuffling along in their tiny shoes - how big and gauche I felt next to them. But Gordon didn't think so - we were so in love and we spoke of marriage..." and Gran once again retreated into her memories of the past gazing into the garden.
>> Andrea took the tray and dirty plates out and was washing them up when her grandmother appeared beside her.
>> "Well, Andrea, dear, what a surprise! What are you doing here and washing up? Who let you in ? You should have let me know and I could have baked a cake."
>> Andrea hesitated, wiped her hands dry and gently guided her grandmother back to the sitting room.
>> "But Gran, don't you remember? We've just had coffee and cake and you were telling me about your time in China with a gorgeous doctor."
>> "Was I, dear? I don't remember any doctor in China.  I do remember when I went to the doctor last week he asked all sorts of stupid questions about prime ministers' names and I had only gone to have a prescription renewed. Well let's have a nice cup of coffee and one of our chats. It's so long since I've seen you. Have I ever told you about the dainty little Chinese ladies in Peking?"

 
Monica: 

I remember when I went to my very first Dance/Ball with black tie and evening dress or cocktail dress.   The evening was magical in fact the most magical evening of my young life.   It was magical for me, for its youth, the innocence, the opulence of the damask napkins and the shining crystal glasses on the table.   
I hadn't been on the stud farm very long when one of the large wealthy farmers came down to give us a neighbourly call and suggested I might like to join the young farmers;   hence how I came to be at this magical evening in 1959.

The young farmers ball was held at the Tillgate Forest Hotel what we would now call a boutique country house hotel.

When he asked if I would like to come to the ball, to say I was ecstatic was an understatement.

A small problem of what to wear was a minor detail.   Something would turn up and it did.   My boss and her sister went through their wardrobes.   Something like the fairy godmother for Cinderella and we came up with an A line cocktail dress with a wide skirt.   The sort you wore with lots of petticoats.   I remember raiding the huge larder for bags of sugar to starch them with.    The colour of the dress was a cross between a light blue and turquoise in a silky taffeta material.  Shoes were found at the bottom of some enormous wardrobe and they almost matched the colour.   my first pair of nylon stockings was bought with my weeks wages and I had my hair done.  Helen my boss's sister did my nails.   Mr Beard the big farmer and his wife came to pick me up and guarded me all evening in the most discreet way.    I was introduced to all the table in the most natural way to all the farming bigwigs and the sons and daughters also.   Mrs Beard showed me where the powder room was and made sure I enjoyed myself.   I can still remember this large round table with the afore mentioned opulence.
The menu was for starter's a huge prawn cocktail and some sort of cream chicken dish but this is all I remember.   I do remember feeling a cross between a Princess and Cinderella.   We danced the Scottish reels and I recall the hefty farm boys stomping around getting completely tangled up and some of us girls lost with  complicated dance steps.   The Waltz was wonderful and gave me the Princess feeling again.   Before we left, I recall having my photo taken at the foot of the magnificent sweeping staircase which I must have somewhere amongst my photo albums.
Shortly after midnight Cinderella was duly taken back to the stud farm by Mr and Mrs Beard and I was on cloud nine for days afterwards.

EVE

I looked at the devastation caused by Katrina and was shocked,my dogs as well.I just got off duty,raced home to check the damages,it was beyond belief,a moon scape.People were walking around like zombies,the silence was deafening but for the helicopters above,assessing the damage.I stood in front of the remains of my lovely house,my belongins strewn all over the neighborood.I couldn't cry,just stood there and taking it all in,the dogs were upset,looking at me,ears twitching.I walked to Sandy's house,left a note on the door telling her I was at the Gulf Hills Hotel. We had 9 feet of water in the house which was built on a 13feet bluff,my car was full of water,all the doors, walls were gone everything destroyed,some of my furniture was  down the road,the trees were full of paper,flying in the wind saw a Santa Claus,dolls etc etc Some people died at the end of the street,refusing to evacuate,still I felt no real emotion,like a walking dead.The heat was unbelievable,about 40 degrees,100% hum idity.I looked a last time at my garden,nothing left,so much time spent working there.I went to the hotel where all the resident of Gulf Hills had been invited to stay. No other place to go, no water,electricity,  noAC and wearing the only clothes I had on my back.I started to think about the things I lost,pictures,clothes my purses and shoes etc. Went back to the jail,talked to the ,Sheriff, in a daze himself,told him my story,got some deputy clothes and kept my patrol car.They didn't see me for a week since I had to patrol the neiborhood because of looters and I was the only cop around.Everybody was armed and ready and drinking a lot,they all went back to their distroyed houses,salvaged the booze and bought it back to the hotel.    Unless you have been in such a situation you just can't picture it.We were all damaged by Katrina and it seems like yesterday, flashbacks etc I miss the states and MS but I don't think I could live through an other disaster like it. And sleeping in a room with 5 people and 2 German Sheperds was a bit much after a while.

Visit to the Haras de Vulsain Semur en Auxois

May 2017

Jackie's story:

I’m not feeling too good today I had another eruption just last night and it has upset my left side so that I am feeling off balance.
My name is “Earth” and my atmosphere is all clogged up with particles of waste, dust and diesel fumes which is causing me to produce earthquakes, flood storms and volcanoes.    
  I went to the doctor and he saw the dirty brown spots on me where it should have been lush and green.  He found whole areas that were dry and scaly - where trees had been cut down and land left barren.  
 I told him I felt warm but then kept going cold all over and then warm again in patches.   Also, it’s  embarrassing as noxious gasses escape me from time to time.
The doctor took my temperature and said he detected a little global warming.   I didn’t like the sound of that at all.  Then he told me what my condition was.   It turns out I have a hole, yes, a large hole that is growing by the minute in my ozone layer.  He explained that the ozone layer serves as a shield from the harmful ultraviolet rays emitted by the sun.  So I asked him to stitch me up but he said it wasn’t that easy - at the rate that it  is growing in other words, very fast,  there was a race against time for things to get better.   
He took some samples and came back with the results.  My sea is full of pollution and there are traces of industrial chemicals and oil.    ‘ Oil’ I thought that sounds ominous as I could imagine it sloshing around in my inner self causing suffocation and preventing wildlife and vegetation from multiplying.    Apparently also there are traces of waste matter too.   The doctor found a bug and so I said doctor that must be the Millienium bug and he replied that no the Millenium bug was just a hoax to make us all buy new laptops and DVD players at the turn of the century.  He added, this one that I have is more of a “litter” bug.    
    When the doctor read out the analysis of my sea he found  surprisingly low levels of life  as plastic bags, bottles and rubbish were clogging up my system which was the cause of my extreme constipation and stomach spasms causing volcanic venting and there was a serious lack of bacteria that would normally clean me up and enable sea life to reproduce.   He also found traces of a new phenonomen called nuclear debris which emits  dangerous levels of radiation.   At my earth poles, ice is melting fast which is affecting my balance causing me to tilt to an alarming degree;  my gravity is affected causing the moon to look at me sideways producing tornadoes, tidal waves and upsets growth of the creatures that live within me.
   All in all my visit to the doctor wasn’t at all reassuring in fact quite alarming and when I asked the doctor  what he thought was causing this,  he replied it was something called the human race and the real winner of this race will be of course future mankind.





Angie's Story

Mary never ever entered competitions. Her view of herself was such that she excelled at nothing, had no special skills, looked very average and was singularly unlucky.

She had always known successful people in her life. Her sister for example, confident and attractive would sometimes enter a competition with an expectation of winning and was usually successful. The trophies on her mantelpiece attested to this.
Gymnastics and swimming as a child, riding in teenage years and golf in adult life.
At work there were colleagues who regularly won office quiz nights or premium bonds or raffle prizes.
Mary just knew that somehow the fates had conspired against her and her lot in life was to be mediocre in every way.
She sometimes looked in the mirror and closing her eyes longed to see a different reflection. Regular features, good bone structure, flawless skin, large eyes, and full lips. Glossy luxuriant hair falling gracefully to her shoulders.
When she opened her eyes that image had faded and Mary's small eyes and mouth, a nose on the large side, fine unmanageable mousy hair and slightly double chin stared back at her.

Thankfully her great aunt Dolly, who herself had been no beauty, always said vanity was a sin and one should be grateful for what was one was given. At least everything worked!

Mary busied herself instead with her work and her passion for gardening and all things outdoors.
So it was, that when an email went round the office, inviting people to join up for a competitive walk in the Derbyshire  Peaks, staying overnight at a youth hostel, Mary scarcely glanced at it. She did actually enjoy walking very much and had quite good stamina, but she did it for pleasure, not to excel in any way. However, a colleague with whom she was quite friendly and like herself was single, approached her one lunchtime and asked if she would go with her. Unlike Mary, she liked a competition.
After several attempts to decline Mary finally acquiesced and agreed to accompany her friend.

So it was that two weeks later, Mary found herself lying on an uncomfortably lumpy bunk with a skinny pillow and the sounds of intermittent coughing and snoring from other bunks in the dormitory. She was dozing fitfully when the wake up call came and people jostled for the bathrooms and then the breakfast facilities in the large kitchen. She looked around at her fellow walkers and noticed one family in particular, a man, his wife and their young daughter of maybe 12 years old. Obviously friends invited by a colleague.
The office walk organiser Derek was already pulling on his sturdy and expensive looking waterproofs and boots and encouraging everyone to get kitted up and ready for the off.

As the walk got underway, Derek was soon forging ahead with several others staying on his tail and the rest settling into a rhythm and biding their time. It was early October and though not too cold the sky was looking ominous as they headed up towards the plateau, a boggy marshy terrain with little other vegetation.
Mary had let her friend carry on so that she could keep up with the advance walkers and they all took the right hand fork on the winding track up to the top. Mary stopped to loosen her boot laces and then carried on enjoying the effort and the feeling of exertion. As she walked she was aware of someone coming towards her, the mother of the girl she'd noticed at breakfast. She was looking distraught. As she came closer she called to Mary,
'We've lost my daughter! Have you seen a young girl anywhere? My husband told her to go ahead while I changed my trousers but when we caught up she wasn't there.'
It's all so huge and wild - I'm so desperately scared for her.
She's called Louise and she was wearing a red anorak and blue trousers.'

Mary realised that the girl had probably taken the other track back at the fork. She knew speed was of the essence and by great chance she had also put her running shoes in her rucksack as spare footwear.
Trying quickly to reassure the  panicking mother while changing boots for trainers she set off at a good pace.
She soon reached the fork and took the left hand one which was not as steep but wound around trees and bushes before opening again onto a flatter wider expanse still with the occasional stand of trees and on one side dropping sharply to the valley below.  Mary scanned the whole area but could see nothing and no movement. She tried not to think about the drop to her right and carried straight on, pounding the ground as she ran, feeling too the first drops of the threatened rainstorm. She called the girl's name every so often hoping to hear some response but only her own footsteps broke the silence. She tried to think like a child. What would a young girl feeling lost be likely to,do. She thought of herself at that age and remembered she liked to make dens in bushes, feeling safe surrounded by the dark vegetation.
She began to look more closely at each bush as she came to it, still calling the girl's name.  As she ran closer to one thicket she thought she saw a flash of red and as she got closer she thought she heard a voice,
'Louise, are you ok? I'm from the walk, I saw you at breakfast. Your mum asked me to find you. She's very worried. Don't be scared - you're safe now'
Slowly a blonde curly head peered through the bush. Louise crawled out dishevelled, a bit tear stained,but otherwise ok.'

' I got scared when there was no one ahead of me. I couldn't remember the way back so I thought I'd just wait and hope. Thank you so much for finding me'
Then she burst into tears of relief and Mary hugged her shaking young body.

 By the time Mary and Louise finally made it back to the waiting group they had got to know each other quite well. Although young Louise was already very interested in gardening, and Mary was able to give her a few tips.
Louise's mother had become frantic with worry and fell on her daughter, her turn now to cry with relief. Her father, who had remained calm and positive throughout still gave his daughter a big hug and was man enough to admit to having made a bad error in sending her on ahead not knowing of the fork.

Finally back at the hostel where the advance walkers were already changed and on their second drink it was time for the announcement of the winner. There was probably little doubt that it would be Derek but as he received the cup he looked across at Mary, still wet and  bedraggled.
' Mary I'd like you to take this cup - I might have done the fastest time but today you are the real winner! '
The loud cheers and applause all around her, the first she'd ever experienced in her lifetime, made her feel blanketed in warmth. She would probably never win anything but today she had won the thanks and appreciation of her colleagues and perhaps the chance to help Louise create a patch of garden - what more could she ask for.

Write a short story entitled "The first flight" 24th April 2017

Monica's story:

First Flight

Sitting in my first class seat sipping champagne at some unearthly hour of the morning, the first flight we could get for a hastily called business conference in New York. Myself and two colleagues who were looking tired and strained as we took off into the dark starless sky. The crew also seemed strained and when service started 20 minutes later they were not very attentive and did not smile much, in fact their attitude to us passengers bordered on rudeness. I guess they had already done the trip from New York to London and were on their return leg and it showed. The nine hour flight seemed endless, my mind going over and over the business we had to discuss when we arrived. Unable to sleep and starting to feel a little nausea from the turbulence we were experiencing I looked around at the rest of my fellow passengers who with the exception of a few who were sleeping, seemed to be unable to relax like me. My mind suddenly took a flight of fancy, how could the Wright brothers have flown that flimsy contraption of a flying machine across part of America, open to the elements and with no facilities at all and the tiny machine that flew across the English channel all that time ago. Imagine the stress and emotions the pilots must have felt, elation and fear no doubt but determination to make history certainly. Were they egotistical or just adventurous or just plain crazy. Even in my fanciful thoughts I just could not get my head around those flights all those years ago.
I also thought about the young pilots in the First world war, English and German flying fragile killing machines. The Second World war pilots were no doubt romanticized a little as the machines like the Spitfire were more powerful and faster and they flew in closed cockpits but the stresses were no less. Lots of young women wanted to marry the pilots who to them seemed brave and cavalier but underneath the emotions were much the same.
I came out of my reverie and I decided to look at the in-flight movies and low and behold I found in the old classics the film the “Memphis belle” which I watched with my mind disapearing in the clouds every now and then and returning to my previous thoughts. Flying became even more glamorous when the Americans entered the war and even more young women fell for these men who were like modern day Knights with no fear but underneath the facades they portrayed must have been mental wrecks. Aircraft got bigger and carried more bomb loads. The B52 bomber was a classic example, cramped, uncomfortable and slow with many of the young crews never returning. By now my mind was filled with the images I was watching and my emotions were in turmoil thinking about all the young lives lost in the skies around the world.
We arrived in New York and after retrieving our bags got a taxi to the meeting venue where I managed to get my head together enough to do a great deal for our company. We left the meeting feeling very elated and when we arrived at our hotel we found a message from our CEO congratulating us on our successful completion and telling us that we would be returning First class on an Emerites flight as a thank you. It was like a self contained bubble in an aircraft, with a proper bed and a shower. A full size TV screen and a small bar. Sadly those early pioneers of flying machines will never know how far they have brought us with hundreds of planes flying thousands of people around the world to far flung exotic places for business and pleasure. Thank you for that First flight.

 






Annemarie's story:

First Flight

He pushed the ramshackle, paint-peeled little rowboat down the slope and clambered in as it slid into the gently lapping water; he grabbed the old gnarled oars and rowed to the tiny tree-covered island. A long thin loch studded with minute islands this one was his special place. He had been coming here for years, initially with his father, quietly observing the natural life. In their notebooks the two of them had written down details of diving birds, dates when they sat on their nests incubating eggs, they had seen the deers swim across the narrow slip of water but best of all were the sea eagles which had built their haphazard twiggy eyrie in the lofty height of a fir tree. Several years on the notebooks had become bigger and they hugged in their pages pencil sketches and wild life details from hours of quiet observation during forays to the tiny island.
But today he had left his notebook behind and slung, instead, the binoculars around his neck. Grabbing hold of the old knotted boatsman's rope that hung from a lower branch he scrambled his way up the Douglas fir tree. Once near the top he settled into the crook of some branches from where he could see the sea eagles' nest in the neighbouring tree. He had last been several months ago in Spring and had just been able to see the chicks, .they had appeared furry, their inadequate wings more fluff than feather. Their beaks ever-gaping, ever demanding food, constantly refilled with tasty titbits from the parent eagles, great hooked beak pushing food into the gaping smaller  hooked beaks.
Now the two enormous chicks overflowed the nest; he watched as one chick raised itself up on its tumbled, twiggy platform, wobbling at first, large yellow claws still gripping the nest, feathered pantaloons hanging down over strong-muscled legs; slowly it unfolded fully feathered wings, stretched them, then started bouncing up and down all the time furiously flapping those wings. The boy decided to stay longer in his own uncomfortable eyrie in his own tree, leaning his back against the rough bark and wedging himself between two spiky branches. Below and around him a feast of green, clumps of pine needles and lapping on the island shore the cool dark water of the loch. Above him, after the winter's icy north winds, the trees were rugged, bare and black against summer' azure skies. The wind was gentler now and the sun warmed his face and arms as he kept watch. Time rewarded him when the hungry eagle chick once again bounced up and down with outstretched wings until suddenly it launched itself into midair on a gust of wind, wavering drunkenly at first, then settling serenely into an elegant glide. Through the binoculars the boy could see the fan of the now-white tail feathers spread neatly behind, tilting from side to side like a rudder. He saw the yellow claws and feathered legs drawn backwards stretched beneath the tail fan , the bird's smooth dark head thrust forward but best of all its wings stretched to their full extension, the leading feathers like mini castellations with a hint of fluttering and the long outer feathers spread wide open, curving upwards under the wind draught like an elegant Balinese dancer's hands. 

He watched the fledgling swooping and gliding, mastering the skies until eventually it came to a bumpy, clumsy landing on a branch in its home tree. Thrilled to have seen the eagle's inaugural flight he shinned down the tree, pushed the boat into the water and against the incoming tide rowed as fast as he could to the far bank, dragged the boat onshore and puffing and panting clambered up the hill, bounding over purple heather, stumbling and falling over boulders in his rush to tell his parents.

Back in the crofter's cottage his father watched while his bird-crazy boy made adjustments to their winter's project. They had poured over yellowed pages of an old, cracked leather, Victorian naturalist book of engraved drawings of bird anatomy. Between them they had constructed a bamboo skeleton, hinged mid-section of each wing. The feathers, harvested from neighbouring farms, had been glued in place, then each one carefully tied with wire to the bamboo, row upon row of black feathers, brown feathers, striped and speckled feathers, all carefully preened and smoothed. Finally leather straps had been added at intervals down the length of both wings. Now the boy threaded more wire through the wingtip feathers, spread them a little apart and gently tip-tilted them to replicate the wings in flight as he had seen them. He looked with pride at his achievement and his father looked with love at his son.

      Early the next morning the boy climbed up to the top of the boulder strewn hill, high up to where it descended steeply into the loch. He placed the wings behind his back and awkwardly struggled his arms through the leather straps. He gently flapped his arms up and down, hearing the rasping of the feathers. Then he stood up and on the open ground he began to run. This way and that bouncing as the eagle had done, then stretching and flapping his arms, exultant, whooping with joy. He only wished he could see himself and he wondered why he had not thought to make a white tail fan. Drunk with delight, he laughed out loud, his head thrown back and he ran ever faster, then launched himself into midair, this his first flight, over the loch, the sun glinting on the gently rippling water.

 


Angela's story:

Megan would not have called herself a dishonest person, just simply one who was blessed with an active and creative imagination. As a child when asked, for example. what she had had for breakfast,  she felt it beholden on her to embellish the piece of toast and glass of milk into something which would capture the interest of the enquirer. So, without missing a beat, she would find herself describing fresh orange juice squeezed by her mum, soft poached eggs on muffins and a chocolate milk shake.

To her it was as natural as breathing, although she took pains only to 'embellish the truth' when there was no one present who knew otherwise and might challenge her words.

On the whole this was a harmless exercise which was rarely remarked on and if noticed was dismissed as childish prevarication.

Later, in teenage years her imagination meant that she shone in the school plays and developed a passion for amateur dramatics.
On leaving school she joined the local Amdram society in her town and soon became good friends with several of the members in her age group.

Infact, perhaps more than good friends with one boy in particular,Rob, to whom she found herself cast opposite, in a one act play. While they provided the love interest, ( much to Megan's delight) Judy, a fairly new member, was cast as the 'other woman'.
It was unfortunate that this rather mirrored real life in that Judy had very quickly made it obvious that she too had designs on Rob.
It was during a break in rehearsals that Megan started on her 'first flight of fancy' as she had always thought her embellishments to be.
Judy had been telling Rob about the flat she was in the process of buying. He was listening politely and asking the right sorts of questions.
'How funny' said Megan, joining in.
'I've just moved into a new flat.It's a bit of a dream actually, on the river, spacious, with two bedrooms and huge French windows that open onto a balcony overlooking the water'.
As she spoke she realised she was describing her Aunt's flat who was single, and with a very good job which enabled her to have a pied de terre in the country not far from Megan's parents.
Rob seemed interested and said he'd like to see it sometime at which Judy's face fell since he'd not expressed the same desire to see hers.
Megan found herself saying that would be fine and they should make a date for him to see it and perhaps stay for a bite of lunch.

As with all prevaricators, after the flight of fancy comes the reality check. For Megan, it was how to conjure a non existent flat into existence.

Sometimes though, fate plays a hand. Back at home that night she heard her mother complaining mildly to her Father about that sister of hers who lives a life of Reilly.
'Off to the States this time! A week in California and then a road trip going off the beaten track. All right for some isn't it.
Of course I don't begrudge having had a family but by gum it puts paid to a lot of other life choices doesn't it!'
Megan's father, who'd heard it all before, muttered something about contentment and wandered off to spray his roses.

Megan however was very interested in this latest trip of her Aunt's and ascertained the impending date which was infact the next day.

So, she found herself at the next rehearsal, casually inviting
Rob to come and see the flat anytime that suited him. Just give her time to tidy up. This was infact shorthand for hiding any incriminating evidence that might give the game away - and that's  how Megan thought of it - just a game.

Her mother always had a set of keys to the flat for emergencies and it was so easy just to borrow them, to let herself in and pop away some things while draping a few of her own about the place.

So it was, that a few days later, Rob was knocking on the door of Megan's aunt's  flat and Megan was answering that door looking for all the world as if she'd done it many times before.

Rob's jaw dropped a little as he walked inside.
'Gosh Meg. This is something else! Really cool. I'd no idea you had such a great pad. Have you christened it with a housewarming yet?
Somehow Megan found herself saying.
'No, but funnily enough I was thinking of asking round this week and maybe having a do at the weekend'

When she got home her mind was in overdrive. This was the most complicated flight of fancy ever! Could she possibly get away with fooling people. She may have to confess to one or two who knew her that it was borrowed and ask them to keep it quiet.

For the rest of that week the party was all she could think of, doing a massive shop for buffet type food and drink.All ready made and easy to put out with no preparation involving using her Aunt's equipment.

She treated herself to a new rather flattering and low cut dress and had her hair done after work.

She came and went from home as she pleased so being out and possibly very late was no problem.

She got to her Aunt's flat well ahead of the first guests and set everything out on the kitchen surfaces with drinks and hired glasses.

By nine o clock things were in full swing and a very appreciative Rob was spending a lot of time chatting to Megan and asking her much more about herself which Megan found a little difficult now that she was a high flyer with a fancy flat.

She was even rather wishing she had never embarked on this crazy subterfuge. Where did these flights of fancy come from and what would it lead to.
She had excused herself and gone into the kitchen on the pretext of finding more bottles but in fact to take a breather and think just what had she done.

The noise level was rising as the alcohol was going down literally and in terms of bottles. Would she need to go out and get  more she wondered. Then her musings were interrupted by a clinking of spoon on glass and her name being called.
To her horror they were wanting to congratulate her on her new abode.
She went reluctantly through to the main room where Rob had got everyone's attention and all eyes were focused on her.
To her horror,  a large wrapped parcel was being produced along with a big bouquet of flowers. She opened her mouth to protest that she did not in any way deserve this generosity and as she did so a new figure appeared in the doorway behind her.
A cold voice interrupted her protestations.
'No you're damn right you don't deserve them since this my flat and not yours and just what the hell do you think you're doing in it with all these people?'

Megan spun round to see her Aunt standing there, her face twisted in anger and still holding her suitcase along with some groceries bought on her way home.

Megan felt exactly like an animal caught in car headlights. No way to turn and run, nothing to do but stare in horror at her Aunt. What flight of fancy could she conjure now to get her out of this. In a split second several scenarios went through her mind but even she knew none were convincing.

She was forced to tell the  truth, to confront her Aunt head on and admit what had led to this. The worst part was having to do it in front of these acquaintances, some of whom she barely knew.
She was about to open her mouth when a scream came from the balcony. A girl had been smoking out there and not heard the call for quiet. Now, as they rushed to see, the girl was staring at the water and pointing.
They could see in the fading light the murky outline of a body floating face down in the water.
At once all was pandemonium. Calls for police, ambulance, men to help perhaps with retrieving the body and Megan and her Aunt forgotten in the excitement.
People rushed outside down to the river bank either to try to help or just out of curiosity.
Suddenly it was just Megan and her aunt still waiting for an explanation and largely ignoring the panic around them.

' I'm so so sorry' Megan said, with genuine tears in her eyes.
'It's not enough' her aunt replied, what you have done is totally unacceptable on any level.
'I  started off just pretending I had a nice flat to talk about and it went from there but I never expected you to come back'
'I bet you didn't! Your mum hadn't mentioned there was just an outside chance I might be called back by my work then? No, obviously not'
They were interrupted by more noise as some of the guests came back in.
' Have you not seen?' said one. '
Real drama out there. Someone dived in before the ambulance got here and dragged the guy out. Seems he was still alive  and then the paramedics did the rest.
He's on his way to the hospital now but they reckon he was saved just in time. They said if he hadn't been spotted from that balcony he'd have been a gonner. Weird eh!
Maybe not a bad thing you threw that party Megan!


Jackie's Story:

 Sylvie  paced back and forth across the waiting lounge for the fourth time.   Her flight had been delayed and there she was, stuck at  San Francisco airport.  She had been there for a few hours, and had done a fair bit of window shopping, spray tested  expensive perfumes, tested hand creams and imagined herself in ‘that’ dress or carrying ‘that’ pocketbook or wearing ‘that’ designer coat.   She was dressed in her comfies ; black sports pants a loose top and carried her flight necessities in a large bag - books phone water and notebook.    The lady back at the counter informed her that the flight could be delayed further.   Feeling jittery as always before a long air trip, she parked herself on a cosy couch at the coffee bar.  It was a busy Sunday morning and Sylvie enjoyed watching the crowd - she was particularly observant and scribbled in her notebook small details of what she considered were interesting people and noted how they wore their clothes and matched their colour schemes.
Sylvie sipped her 3rd coffee and aimlessly scanned the airport, sometimes tears in her eyes and throat choked up at the emotions the place held  - the joys of arrival, the tears of departure and the excitement of a vacation.  Amidst the crowd, an old man in a sloppy t-shirt was seen wandering around the public area.   As she watched him, he was mooching about muttering to people, shopkeepers and even to a group of airport authorities biding their time at the bar.     He appeared to be in distress and was dragging a canvas bag by its handle over the highly polished airport floor;   twisting his airline ticket or rather wringing it as you would the washing before you put it out to dry,  he appeared disorientated and in discomfort.        Sylvie was a people-person and generally went out of her way to offer help.  She finished her coffee and headed out to the counter to ask about him. “This man has been wandering around aimlessly in the airport for hours maybe days  and appears to be lost.” The desk steward  replied with unmistakable lethargy in his voice. “He has not caused any disturbance to anyone, so the airport officials cannot take any action.”
It took a few seconds for the gravity of his words to sink in: There was no attempt made to help an old man obviously lost in the airport. 
Sylvie went up to him and tried to strike up a conversation.   His eyes were forget-me-not blue,  his lips dry and voice cracked as she took his arm.   His body shook as he explained  that he was a citizen of the United States and losing his memory due to old age.    Apparently he was supposed to join his daughter and her husband in London but was so worried and nervous about boarding a plane that he had wandered around the airport not really knowing what to do.   When they announced his flight he said “I trembled so much and was so scared that I locked myself in the men’s room…I must have been there for some time as when I came out the flight had gone”.  You see, he said “I have never flown before”.  I am 78 years old and this was to be my first flight - I guess I’m being a little silly.
She offered to call his daughter and inform them about his whereabouts, but he just couldn’t remember their contact numbers.   So with a little kindness and help from google she contacted and reassured the UK family who were frantic having come to meet the plane and found Dad was missing, she found out his name was Ted, next she managed to change his ticket to her flight with a seat next to her own.   Sylvie spoke to the head stewardess when boarding the plane - told Ted’s story and was upgraded to Business class then proceeded to be served champagne, steak, caviar, lobster and the best wine on board plus a full English breakfast as they neared England.    Sylvie learned all about Ted’s life, how he had come to the USA with his family in the 50’s hoping to make money - how his wife had become ill and died and he had lived the past 20 years alone - his daughter had moved to England but as times were hard he had only just managed to scrape together the money to buy the air ticket.
 The 10 hour flight just whizzed by and Sylvie forgot her pre-flight butterflies.  The relieved faces of Ted’s daughter and son in law at Heathrow airport and the hug they gave her was thanks indeed for a memorable trip for Ted and also for herself.

 This story goes to show that by helping others we forget our own small problems. 

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