Write a story using these words: petrol - blue- dress- cooking - amnesia -dog

Jackie's story:

Allegra bent over her cauldron;  piping hot steam rose causing her glasses to mist up as the fumes turned her hair green and stained her dress a strange purple shade in the early evening light.   This caused her to peer even closer to her cooking as the mixture was bubbling away in the large copper pot.  She always made her concoctions at dusk on a Monday as it is the day ruled by the Moon which entices the elves to come out in stronghold to help.

The elves ;   Pepper, Sugarplum and Apple were always there when she needed help. Pepper being the eldest elf was very playful creating destruction in the kitchen and once she managed to overturn the cauldron.  

    Sugar plum and Apple possessed unique and extraordinary abilities, superhuman physical powers and natural magical talents.   This particular evening as dusk fell Allegra was having difficulty making her concoction come together.   The preparation was churning into a sinister black mess, smelt foul and looked like a heaving oil slick on the North seas.

        Once a month she prepared her medicinal tea for the Count who lived in the sprawling house up the hill and in return for her concoctions let her live rent free in the little cottage by the woods.        Her mixture included  herbs, grasses, leaves and various dead animals and insects found on her walks through the forest although depending on her amnesia the recipe differed slightly.  She always stirred her big wooden spoon clockwise as this was thought  to be in harmony with the movement of the sun and is linked to health and success.  

She prepared this tea for Monsieur le Comte to drink every evening at midnight,  a time when the wolves howled viciously and the moon turned green.    He was convinced that when he drank Allegra’s herbal teas he found a surge of energy in love,  unusual sensuality, extra strength, and prosperity .   But lately he had been unlucky in love and when he arrived  at her front door complaining  that the concoction was not helping him anymore he threatened she’d have to give up her cottage and leave if things didn’t get better.

It is a well known fact that elves can be unpredictable and tonight, Pepper, the eldest elf was playing havoc with the flames of the fire that heated the cauldron – flitting back and forth teasing the flames to follow her and run circles round about, pulling the dogs tail and generally causing the change of heat that altered the brew.    Allegra, furious, worried and under threat to be evicted was desperate as she turned her wooden spoon even faster   .....The elves joined in turning anti clockwise laughing and giggling, catching the fire flames, throwing herbs and grasshoppers over their shoulders generally creating frenzy.   

In a fit of rage Allegra grabbed her eldest elf by the toes along with Sugar plum and Apple threw them into the hot boiling cauldron – that will teach you she screamed – and watched their sweet mischievous faces dissolve into the boiling concoction which turned a dark petrol blue.      

“What is this “ said the Count dipping a finger to taste then immediately bent over to give Allegra a full-on kiss which released the elves and they spun and danced away across the meadows.

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Eve's story:

It was such a beautiful morning, she was having tea on the terrasse and had to do so manythigs but she couldn't remember half of it.    Maybe she was having dementia, amnesia the one disease which erases memories.  She must see a specialist, one day!   One thing she must do is put gas (petrol) in her car before anything else then what to do, go to the store get a few things, but what?
She'll see when she gets there.   Must also change clothes, cannot go looking like an old hippie with holes in her pants.  Maybe she should wear that blue dress, the new one, fairly new.  Why did she buy the dress, blue wasn't her favorite color, oh well.  She'll wear it and she will also take the dog with her  He loves riding in the car and is so good.  Maybe she'll look for something to cook for tonight, cooking wasn't her thing anymore but one must eat and try to stay healthy.  But what a bore it is when one is alone, eating watching TV.  Acutaly it is sad she thought, being alone, sitting on the sofa and watching these moronic shows on the telly but what else to do???


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Monica's story:
Chris was ready .   This was going to be a dinner party to end all dinner party's.  She loved cooking and was always well organized in the kitchen, with ingredients, timings and lists.   Even the dog had an extra long walk this morning and had now been bathed and brushed and smelt delicious.  Her beautiful expensive designer dress was hanging in the bathroom to get the small creases out caused by hanging in an over stocked wardrobe.  The dress was a stunning colour of petrol blue and looked very flattering in all lighting.

The reason for this finery and planning of a super dooper dinner party was that James her husband was being promoted;   he had been with the same accounting company for many years and promotion had been slow in coming.  He was old school, not a high flyer was James,  with a university degree he had done his qualifications the hard way.   Night school both A levels and accountancy exams.  He didn't really seek high flying promotion.  They were a very contented couple, she was a class room assistant for mental and physical handicapped children, very caring and loving and the children loved her.  They had a nice house with a beautiful large garden which was a passion they both shared.   No children, it just hadn't happened they didn't make a fuss or seek assistance they were just very contented with their life the garden and each other.

Chris was so delighted for her husband and his forthcoming promotion, it had been a long time coming but then he didn't seek fame and fortune.  The boss was coming of course with a very snobby wife and two worl colleagues with their wives.  They socialised with one couple a litle more than the other young couple, often having drinks with them in the local pub or at each others homes, so it was even more important for Chris to get everything perfect.
So all was ready and time was ticking by.  She glanced at the clock.  OK she had plenty of time, just checking her ingredients for her special fish dish that was served over hot stones with a delicious sauce.  The main course was beef Wellington.  She chose this rather hefty meat dish for the men who all loved their beef and afterwards was baked Alaska.  She had done this before and timing was critical and it looked so impressive.

"Oh no", she exclaimed loudly;  even the dog jumped how could I have been so stupid, with the fish dish she made a delicious cucumber sauce and she had forgotten to buy a cucumber.   There were other sauces she could have made or even not serve a sauce at all but Chris was determined this had to be a dinner party to end all dinner parties.   So, grabbing her car keys and telling the dog to be a good boy and she wouldn't be long, they lived a little out of town and the nearest villae with any shops was about six miles away.  The road was busy then it was late Friday afternoon, she was now rather stressed arrived at the shop and grabbing two cucumbers paid and walked back to the car.   Except that she never quite reached the car crossing the road very preoccupied clutching her cucumbers ...bang! crash... a squealing of brakes like she had never heard,  then blackness.   She had walked across the road in front of a huge delivery lorry.   The driver didn't stand a chance of not hitting her.  The devastation he caused by trying not to hit her was indescribable.  The bus shelter was flattened, shop fronts crashed into, shattering of glass then deathly silence.    The sirens began, what a carnage.   Chris was still alive and taken to hospital as was the lorry driver .  He didn't sustain life threatening injuries.
Of course, the dinner party never happened nor did the promotion.  In fact, James left work to devote the rest of his life nursing and looking after and bringing Chris back to life.   She recovered well physically but the brain inury left her with a memory problem.  Amnesia.    The doctors were optimistic that it would improve over time when the brain had had time to heal but it would leave a lasting brain damage to her memory.

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Sarah's contribution:

I remember everything.  Every little detail.  I can't forget.  I hear about other people losing their memory, complaining that they don't remember names, or faces, or facts about history, or whatever.  I remember everything.
"Do you remember," says a friend, "how we ran out of petrol that night and had to walk to the nearest station, 5 miles, at 3 o'clock in the morning?"
Of course I remember; why did she remind me?  What she remembers wrong is that we didn't run out of petrol, we had plenty of that.  We hit a dog.  He was totally crushed, a mass of blood and bones, and we were drunk, and when we tried to drive over it, the fur and whatnot got into the motor and stalled us.  We couldn't move on.  So we stumbled towards assistance, and when we got there, she crumpled into a nerveless heap and slept till morning.  I dealt with it all, and when she woke up she had no memory of the incident, just that we had had to walk for miles and miles in the middle of the night.
There's this dress in the wardrobe.  I should get rid of it.  Because it reminds me of the night I told Jake I didn't love him any more, and he threw the drink in my face, and the low measured reproaches grew to nasty comments and finally to shouting and screaming, before he walked out and never came back.  Yes, I should get rid of that dress, because I never wear it any more.  But I would remember anyway.
I remember everybody's birthday, and it used to cost me a lot, but I've cut back spending on birthday cards.  I say no, firmly, and walk past the card rack.  I remember the kitten that got sick and died in my arms, when I was five, and it still hurts.  I remember all the geography facts, and when someone says, do you know where Kabul is, I say of course, and the population is over 3 500 000 inhabitants.  Every time I want to do something I remember my mother's advice, and my teachers' guidelines, and the story of my grandfather's failure, and I stop and ponder: is this the right thing to do?  Or not?  So many confusing signposts, and my own experience is lost among all these other guidelines.
I know cooking recipes by heart, so many of them that I never know which one to pick.  I don't need a shopping list, but sometimes I get mixed up and buy things that I had intended to buy the week before but weren't on the shelves then and that now I don't need any more.  I remember the exact shade of blue of the curtains in my childhood bedroom; that memory is nice.  It comforts me, such a lovely shade of blue!
--Watch out!
-- What? 
Too late!

When she woke up, they asked her her name.
She thought for a moment and said, "I don't know."
"Where do you live?"
She thought again, and again she said she didn't know.
"How old are you?  Are you married?  Do you have any children?  What's your job?  Where did you grow up?"
To all these she replied with the same empty answer, while something was gradually forcing its way up into her consciousness.  At last she stopped them, and with a broad smile she said:
"I don't know anything at all.  Except that this, this here, is something I have wanted all my life, something I have been waiting for.  A new start, a clean slate!  Blessed amnesia!"

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Geraldine's story:

She closed her eyes and felt her mind slowly drifting from her tired-out body.  Every day, after lunch, Amy would let herself go for a small half-hour after her morning activities and the light lunch hastingly taken.

And, it would be another chapter of her dreamed life, so different from the burdened one she had been going  through for so many years.

This morning, she had been cooking for  the fourteen guests her boss had invited in for lunch : they were to discuss the new project of redesigning the garden and including a swimming-pool  on the premises.  She so damned well-knew she would never go swiming and that  it would only be more work, having to clean it everyday, on top of all the other chores.  She had been up so early this morning, cleaning and cutting the vegetables, cooking the eggs and salmon, making the mayonnaise and displaying all the wonderfully fresh dishes on the table she had set-up on the covered terrace.

She had laid-out the blue delft set of plates and dishes  which were perfect for a casual outdoor meal, and litt the petrol lamps rather than the candles because it was still a bit windy.

Her eyes gently closed and she wondered : why is it they can all swim and enjoy it ?  where and when did they learn ? How come if you are born on the right side of the street you have access to so many things, can learn for years, travel around and chose what you like !

Is it due to where you are born, the colour of your skin, your ability to have high confidence in yourself, what your parents have passed on.. ..

 Some of us coloured people do manage to be a cut above the rest, but at what price !  and so much effort and we still never feel as belonging to that world where everything seems so smoothe and easy !

Amy slowly let go and began dreaming again : she was in a huge ballroom with beautiful polished parquet, an orchestra playing floor dance music and couples swirling around under the glowing ceiling chandeliers.  The music, the movement, the light and the enchanted atmosphere made her feel dizzy for a while, and then the turned her head and looked at this handsome blue eyed tall man stretching out his hand and inviting her to dance.  She felt so carried away and started turning and turning and turning with her partner, to the sound of the music.  She felt good : her greyish blue dress was spining showing just the bottom of her fine brown legs and her blue ballerinas matching her dress.  Her eyes were closed, the music faded away and …. A huge bark set her up to her feet again !

It was Bob, the Golden retriever, barking for his afternoon walk she would give him everyday after lunch… With a feeling of guilt, she sprang to her feet to take to dog for his daily trip down to the river where he would have a splash, and then back home where she would brush him and make sure he had no flees or other bugs.

Her mind went back to her dream : she  knew it had been a wonderful dream, but was it amnesia she suffered ?  She could never remember them,  but as she felt comforted, she knew it had been a good one.

And she longued for tomorrow to come again for her next little escape that kept her going….

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Annemarie's story

Now I realise that I was supposed to have all of you over for lunch today for writing club and I would have been cooking a delicious seafood feast ( as Paula is enjoying a very different festival in Basel- so no worries about Paula and fish!). And thank you Eve for arranging lunch at Agnès instead.

I managed to get 'parole' from prison to come out for the meal as long I was back for lock-up by 16h00 - or it's solitary for me. 

However...John yesterday brought the wrong dress, even though I had described very carefully - “green and navy stripes, big pockets and if you can't see it you could look at hangers where it might be hiding under another dress...What did he bring ? A short blue summer dress! I don't know if he just doesn't listen, is colour-blind or has amnesia!

Now he's just phoned and said he couldn't bring the right one as he had run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere and just as he was phoning his mobile cut out. So presumably he would now have to walk to the nearest house, hope there was someone in and it would be far too late by then to get Thostes and bring me to Epoisses.

Now , Jacky, I know I promised to send my story, (which I have written and which John printed out) but...just as he'd finished printing it he lost power, lights everything  - he doesn't think it was a power cut, more likely workmen cut through something major cable as no one else in the village is cut off and there was a lot 'merde, putain..' etc coming from the men working on our electricity .  Otherwise I am sure if he was nearer Thostes he could have walked home and emailed it to you. 

Well I know it sounds just like the  schoolkid who, not having done  his homework, told his teacher- 'Miss, the dog ate my essay'   ...but in this case  it's not my fault; John's walking somewhere between Thostes and Montbard with my story so I am afraid you will have nothing from me and I shall have to stay in clink, eat cold over-cooked veggies in vinaigrette, and apple pap pudding.

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What advice would I give my younger self

A letter to my younger self  0 version 2  by M.S.
(04.01.2020)

What would I say to my younger self if I had the chance?  Absolutely nothing.  Or, simply: do it all the same!  Change nothing.  Every experience is valuable, even the painful ones.  Just go out there and do it, make the same mistakes and the same good choices, and thank God for the chance to be alive and born into good circumstances.  A good deal depends on luck.  After that, just try for the best.  That’s all you can do.
Except I would say, write home more to my mother; she hungered for it.  And try harder to understand my father in his last days.  And write more, in general, just for the record.  So that I would know the details of that past life I have mostly forgotten.  So, all right, write more.  Try to understand more.  After that, nothing.  Just go ahead and do it!
But Paula suggested this theme, and Paula is not satisfied.  She was hoping to learn more about each of us, and this text says nothing!  OK, Paula, here are the details.
Should I say to myself, don’t be so shy?  I was very shy.  But that is the way one is, it’s something you can’t help.  I had friends all the same, at least until I was eight.  Then my parents moved to a place where there was no-one my age.  My brothers and sisters all had companions on the block; not me.  But that too I could not help, and so naturally I grew into the sort of person who reads and draws and plays the piano and enjoys being alone.
Was it right to ask my parents to let me go to the private girls’ school from eighth grade on?  Of course I was cut off from boys and from the world, but it allowed me to blossom and to grow in assurance.  Did I choose the right college, a Catholic women’s college I grew thoroughly sick of by the time I was out of it?  Yes, that was probably where I fit best at the time, more sheltered than in an Ivy League school or a state university; I just had to grow out of it.
One of the best decisions I ever made was to go to Berkeley.  The writer in residence in the writing program had said “Don’t go to writing school!  Study literature!”  Was medieval literature really the best choice for a would-be writer?  You would probably say no, but I don’t regret it for a moment.  Of course I forgot all about writing, and expected eventually to teach.  Berkeley changed my world view; it was essential to my development.
The next major decision was capital: to apply for the Fulbright.  I would never have thought of it on my own, it was Professor Muscatine who suggested it and encouraged me.  I didn’t even expect to get it, but I did.  I do in a way regret not rewarding his hopes in me and never finishing that thesis, but it was just not possible; Fate determined otherwise.
Some would disagree with my next decision, not to go home again and to make my life in France.  But to me this was the major turning stone.  Should I regret marrying the man I later divorced?  Never!  Should I have tried to keep him when things began to crack?  Not there either.  I needed the experience of fighting for myself, earning the money to buy my own apartment, struggling to keep the family together.  We were friends again in the end; just not married to each other any more. 
Should I have tried to remarry?  I did look around, I did make efforts, some of which even lasted for a while, but there was no-one, really no-one that I thought I could live with, and now I don’t even look around any more.  Maybe in America there are interesting men for divorcees, but I have never met anyone over here.
Well, then, Eve, this is longer than I intended.  But it’s not my fault.  My first draught was only two paragraphs.  For the rest, you can thank Paula!
 





Annemarie

to me

Dear younger, thinner, nimbler less wrinkly me.
Let's assume we are in a dual-time zone covering 60 odd years and old me is going to give young me/you some good advice garnered through the last six decades.
Always be curious - no, not nosy, just curious. Yes keep climbing those walls which say PRIVATE - you never know who or what you will discover and when you are in our present time zone you will have fewer regrets. Remember climbing our boarding school roof with your our best friend for an illicit visit to see “Summer Holiday” at the cinema? Quite fair young me thought, as all the other girls had gone away for the weekend and although young me was caught climbing back in through the window by matron - well it was worth it. The best friend who has since led an incredibly sheltered life says it was the most daring thing she has done in her life! Well, you, young me must strive for far more excitement than that!
Friends, together  with family, are the best part of our lives. You will make many but as you grow up and have boyfriends always keep a place and time for them because the boyfriends will pass but you want to embrace your friends (particularly when the boyfriends go).
It may not be easy to stand up and speak out for what’s important to you, but you will be amazed at how empowering, and important, it can be. It only needs several people to stand up for what they believe and people will take notice;-remember the suffragettes, the Greenham Common demonstrators and now Greta Thunberg? Things may not happen straight away but little by little change will happen
Don't waste time on people who hurt you. Put them behind you and look to your friends and the future. and don't think everyone else is having a much jollier/fuller time than you - for instance at Christmas /New Year.  Instead, why not invite others with nothing to do and have a great time together.  The  fastest way to improve the quality of your own life is by doing something that improves the quality of someone else’s.

If you think something good about someone - tell them! 

Stop looking inwards, in mirrors worrying about your funny nose etc., taking selfies - there is so much more to see the other way - other people's merits, beautiful UNSPOILT views.
Try new things - a new sport, hobby, language - it will keep you young, your body healthy and/or your mind from atrophying, or better still pay attention during your French lessons and you will be able to speak French so much better than old me! Do not stop reading. It opens worlds, comforts you, and it can find you friends if you join a book club!

A career isn't everything - if you must choose take the time with the children, you won't regret it.

Now, those jazz dance classes you so enjoyed so much... keep doing them and as we did in the aerobic class go right to the back of class so as not to mess the others with our lack of time-keeping, rhythm or musicality... and promise the teacher you do not want to be in the end of term performance but stay with classes!  After all you had your moment as a paperchain when you danced in the ballet before the Queen Mother - what more do we need?Look after your teeth - Even though ,at six years old you fell and knocked out your 4 front teeth they grew back nice and strong until, much older, I came to France and broke 2 back teeth on French bread. Dental treatment is so expensive and can take so long and is so painful so... don't eat French bread!

Remember the people you take for granted are usually those who looked after you - so please pass this letter on to my, your ,our daughter and son and enjoy the coming years as I have done!

 

Paula

Dear Paula,

Wow, do you have a lot to learn.

First off, you need to moisturize. Everything. Every day. Trust me on this.

Be fierce in your friendships. You have a lot of friends who love you crazy. They’re the keepers.

But, and I’m kind of jumping ahead here, you can be loyal to a fault. There are a few people in your life who you think are true, but they eventually will betray your trust, horribly, in life-changing ways, and you have to just let that shit go. Let them go. It’s hard, but it’s necessary. For your sanity.

On the other hand, there are times when forgiveness seems impossible. Do it anyway. Not for the other person, but for you. Trust me on this, too. You will sleep better at night.

Use sunscreen. Always. Maybe that way, we will avoid all the freaking skin cancer scares later.

So, your body, right now? It’s strong, and it’s supple, and it’s smooth. Enjoy that. Revel in it. Because all that will go away one day, and when that happens, someday you’ll see photos of yourself from where you are right now, and you will realize how freaking fabulous you looked. So, stop thinking you’re fat. Stop wishing you had a flatter belly. Right now? You’re the bomb.

OK, look. Many things are going to seem to come easily to you: good grades in school, promotions at work, awards in your profession, men falling for you. Don’t take any of that for granted. Not one minute.

Keep working on being kind. To animals, to strangers, to restaurant servers, to men you don’t want to date. You never know what someone else is going through.

Hey, you need to remember to stretch, every day. That’s important, too.

Get to know mom and dad. You will be so, so glad once they’re gone. They will be your best teachers of unconditional love. Oh, and after they’re gone, you’re going to dream about them. That’s pretty cool.

Keep up with your French lessons. Really. Because it will come in mighty

handy one day.

Oh, and you know what? It’s going to take you years to find true love. You won’t realize it at first, but when you do, you’ll fight for it. And it will so be worth it.

This sounds a little trite, but it’s true: don’t sweat the small stuff. You will find out that two things matter: health, and love. Everything else is just a movie. So quit worrying about what other people think.

And, really. Don’t forget to moisturize.

Jackie

Today is my birthday.   Yes,  another unbelievable birthday.   I am 105 years old.   Can you imagine? Well here I am – doing well for my age and looking back with tenderness at my young 70’s. . .  When I was 70 years old my girlfriends gave me the best ever present.    A surprise lunch party.  Dear friends who had taken the trouble to get together, buy presents and create a real surprise.    This had happened only one other time in my life when I was 21 and I was deeply touched.  

So my first advice to my younger 70’s self is to keep those friendships they are so precious  keep them close to your heart

When I was 70 I had a cancer and thought the end had arrived.     I was on the brink of saying “ok, lets go find a rocking chair and wait it out” … but It made me realize several things that I need to say because we tend to think once we reach our later years that life is almost over and we don’t need to make an effort anymore.   It is sometimes a time when we say “ok, we’ve been there done this” type of thought and sit back  on the comfy sofa  to watch Netflix all day long.

 This would be such a waste– even if we have a few aches and pains, feel a little more fragile and unadventurous perhaps don’t look as good as before there is still lots to get out of life and to contribute.

So in my 105^th year I say to my younger self  of 70 years - its not too late to make a difference !

Smile more, worry less. Positivity is infectious, and happiness is a choice.

Dreams do come true. But dreams are nothing without action. Dream it, then DO it!

Don’t let anyone ever tell you your dreams are out of reach. Only YOU know your full potential.

Don’t ever judge yourself in comparison to others. Instead, judge yourself against what you know you’re capable of.

Its ok to write things down.    We all become forgetful don’t be ashamed.    Write down your thoughts to look back on, you’ll be amazed how many great ideas you forget!

 Don’t think so much. Sometimes it’s OK to just BE.

Never stop learning. Learning= growth= youth. I still feel youthful at 105 years old. 

Treat life as an adventure. On their deathbeds, people usually regret the things they DIDN’T do.

Never forget where you come from. Let the past keep you grounded and humble.

If you don’t have a serious passion for what you’re doing, do something else instead. Life’s too short to work “just for money.”

No matter how old you are, it’s never too late to live the life you’ve always wanted.  So go for it girl !

Geraldine

 If I had known!   If I only had known what the earth meant to the world, to the oceans, to the birds, fishes, animals and people. 
Would I have taken more care of it or would I have just continued as I do in this huge presumptuous consumer society. 
Is it too late to question myself, or is it never too late?
It takes me right back to when I first saw "Gone with the wind" and Ret Butler at the very end looked at Scarlett O'Hara with this grin on his face to let her know it's too late....but there could be a doubt!   Margaret Mitchel never wrote Tome 2 so..... Now, we, humans, write all the tomes to our lives and I hope there is still time to write the next one, adopting our behaviours to the necessity of LIFE.
This is what I want to hand down to my children, grandchildren and future generations.
We are just such a small part of NATURE, but we can harm her so profoundly !    So it's never too late.

Crushed dream - Theme for the 2nd of December 2019

From Paula:

Sally lived with her brothers and parents in a lovely leafy suburb of London called Crouch End. Sally was 12; her twin brothers, Alex and Drew, were 10. Their house was at the foot of a sweeping cul de sac lined with trees: sycamores, English oak and horse chestnut. Their front garden contained a giant weeping willow, which provided an advantageous spot for the children to hide beneath and spy on the comings and goings of their neighbors. Their back garden was a vast expanse of green lawn, stretching away from the deck behind the house down to the shed at the bottom of the property, and was lined with silver birch trees. Sally’s mum had scattered a few benches and small tables at the edges of the garden, but the large green lawn, perfectly intact, was the favored spot for games of Red Rover and Capture the Flag.

In fact, the house at No. 12 Hornsey Lane was the favorite of all the children on the block, not only because of the huge back garden, not only because Sally, Alex and Drew were always up for any game at any time, but also because of their parents. Known to everyone in the neighborhood as Mr. and Mrs. D, they were welcoming to every child. In their house, no one was ever saying “Get those muddy boots off! Take your feet off the sofa! No jumping on the beds!” And when the children were playing in the back garden, there was always a large pitcher of freshly made lemonade on the deck, alongside a platter of homemade cookies.

Every child in that neighborhood secretly harbored the wish that they had been born into a house so full of laughter and love. Of course, their own houses had love, and laughter, but not exactly on the scale found in Sally, Alice and Drew’s home. That house, that home, was special, and every child in the neighborhood understood it innately.

In that home, on Boxing Day every December, a neighborhood gathering was held. Every family on the block brought a dish to share, and a bottle or two, as well. At the house, there was a little present for each neighborhood child, something small but special, something that was the perfect gift for that boy or girl, something even their own parents might not have guessed. Cries of excitement and happiness would fill the air.

And as the evening wore on, and the children wearied of their games, and the moms and dads had moved from wine to tea or coffee, everyone would gather in the living room for a game of charades. The children clamored to be paired with Sally, or Drew, or Alex, because they were funny and smart and made the best faces. The adults jostled among themselves, hoping to draw Mr. or Mrs. D as their partner, for the same reasons. And as the charades ended, and the evening wore down, families would drift away home, to dream of Boxing Days and weekend barbecues and neighborhood birthday parties to come, with the best family in the world.

Early the next morning, just before dawn, Crouch End was rocked by an immense explosion, a blast that shook every child, every mother, and every father out of their beds, and left the neighborhood shaking in fear at what possibly could have happened. Windows shattered. Dogs howled in terror. Birds fled the trees. Moles scurried deep underground.

As the dust settled, people began venturing outside to find that a crater the size of Westminster Abbey was carved out of the ground where Sally and Alex and Drew’s house used to stand. Flames licked the edge of the lifeless pit. Deep in the earth was a colossal collection of sizzling rock, blindingly hot, that sent a pall of smoke rising over the whole neighborhood.

News crews had already started to arrive. Cameras were everywhere, many perched just at the edge of the smoking abyss where a family had once lived, had loved each other, had welcomed every child into their home as if he or she were their own.

“A meteor!” the cry went up, and was passed from house to house. A meteor, hurtling from space, no way to predict it, no warning to get out of its way, no time to protect one’s family from it. As the neighbors gathered, grieving at the unbelievable loss of this precious family, their pets, their home, anything that showed that people lived here once, people who were very, very special -- there was, in fact, one thing left standing.

At the curb, the sturdy letterbox, scorched and leaning at an odd angle, but intact all the same, held the family name: The Dreams.

Annemaries contribution:

Almost every weekend when we were children, we set off on the car to go swimming  in the lake, followed by a picnic. My mother always led the sing-songs during the half-hour car journey but being Dutch,  she knew no children's songs in English, so she would sing popular songs from the 50’s - « Que Sera, Sera », «  Red Sails in the Sunset » and endless Doris Day songs interspersed with wonderful Italian songs from the LP bought on their Italian holiday. I so loved these journeys and yearned to sing like my mother.
After my first term at boarding school, aged six, I was desperate to offer my selection of songs gathered and learnt from The National Song Book. I loved these rousing songs of the heroes  and heroines of « back home »,  our mother country thousands of miles away - The Campbell’s are Coming, in Dublin's Fair City , Men of Harlech, The Vicar of Bray - and I couldn't wait to launch forth with my favourite « The British Grenadiers » . After all I knew all the words and when to bellow out « with a tow row row row row row to the British Grenadiers » (I was quite shocked when I recently reread the words of shooting and killing). Well, I’d barely finished the first line , « some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules... », before my five year old  sister stuck her fingers in her ears and shouted

 “Stop! You can't sing. Please, mummy, tell her to stop. “

I was devastated. I never sang again in the family car.

 I thought I could recover my dream at school because the following term I was cast , age 7, in a Shakespeare play so fame was still a viable possibility.  Admittedly I had one line of only three words to say - « Sire , your crown » - and I am now sure I was only cast as the page boy because my surname was Page; but  how thrilled I was when , after the play was over, my teacher told me I was as good as the Missing Link! It was at least five years later that I discovered what the Missing Link really meant and the only stagework I undertook thereafter was behind, or painting, the scenes, and making costumes.  

What about learning the piano? Oh how I wanted (and still it is my number one dream) to play the piano. My best friend was the school's star music pupil and she spent multiple months patiently trying to teach me, only to give up in despair as I could not differentiate between notes and in all that time I managed to learn  only the first line of one Christmas carol by memorising the position and order of the notes.

 Each hammer blow of failure crushed my dream of singing, music or theatre until I progressed  from pupil to teacher. Now I was teaching 5-9 year olds all subjects including singing and movement and music! It lasted one week because the very first singing lesson two delightful children put their chubby fingers in their ears, just as my little sister had done fifteen years earlier, saying « Miss, my ears are hurting ».  Obviously I had a an insurmountable task; crushed yet again I was able to persuade a non-arty teacher to swap her art lessons  with my singing/music  lessons, both classes profiting from the arrangement but my  own entertainment abilities ever diminishing.
I still yearn to play the piano and burst into melodious song in company and achieved my ambition but once. While on holiday with friends we visited a 14th century beamed pub in the back of beyond. It happened to be their sin-song night and lubricated with red wine I and my tone deaf friend regaled the revellers with the entire nine verses of “On Ilkla Moor Bah 't 'at”. I am sure the applause was for finishing at last.

There is , of course one way you could all hear this songstress. Invisible in my car you could hear me sing along in perfect harmony and full operatic voice with Jose Carreras, the Beatles , you name it. When I am alone at home spending the day cooking you could creep in unseen and hear a perfect duet resounding round the house sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Annemarie Williams; you really don't know what you are missing!

Crushed dream by Jackie

Sigfried and Annabelle had been in love and  wrapped up in each other since high school.    At age 15 and 16 they used to sneak up to  Annabelles single bed – exploring themselves and then spending hours planning their future and vowing to spend the rest of their lives together –  Sigfried was her first and only man and Annabelle his  only conquest.    

In their imaginary world ..  

They would have 4 children two boys and two girls and three dogs and live in a large farmhouse in the countryside.     Sigfried would make enough money to take the family on far away holidays.    After high school graduation, then university  they  both started  jobs   finally deciding at age 30 to get married and managed to buy a small house and start a family. 

5 years later Annabelle had still not conceived so  investigated the idea of adopting a child.   It took ages to contact the different agencies – their private life was turned upside down by the visits of various officials , pyschologists and medical people.   Annabelle resented the probing and indiscrete questions the couple were obliged to answer.

   

Finally the day arrived a little girl was handed over to the couple who so wanted to start a family.      The 6 month old baby looked like a Russian doll.    Round baby rosy cheeks , pearly white teeth with a sweet smile and beautiful blue eyes.    She gurgled, giggled and her tinkle like laugh enchanted the couple.    But……… she had no name.   So they called her “Dream”.     Representing their every desire.  

“Dream” had been to several families since her birth her mother having abandoned her in a van parked in the forest.       It was only by chance that she was discovered one cold night by night hunters passing by .

Since then for some unknown reason she went  from family to family – and when questioned why the family couldn’t keep her as a foster child they  kept silent and no amount of questioning gave an answer.

This sweet child with dark curly hair and chubby fingers played happily during the day , Annabelle took her out in the new pushchair and received compliments from everyone she met – such a beautiful child – how lucky you are .     Annabelle bought a white wooden bed – decorated it with flowing tulle and ribbons –

Friends gave teddy bears and squeaky toys an she  put up a  baby mobile   with dancing animal shapes that reflected on the ceiling.   

It started on the very first night.    As soon as the child was put to bed the nightmares started–she banged her head against the bars of the new white wooden bed,  wailed and cried all night long – woke every hour screaming her head off with night terrors trembling and only calmed down when she was in their arms.

Another night she was found standing up scratching the walls,  tearing the pretty teddy bear wallpaper to shreds that Annabelle had so lovingly put up when she had heard they were to have a child.   The sleepless night made them tired and irritable and they started to argue and fight over trivial events in their everyday lives .   Tensions grew and both dreaded bedtime for the child.

Annabelle had never imagined that a  baby could behave in this way and after a few weeks of sleepless nights was   desperate to find an answer to stop this and develop a healthy routine. 

As this went on for many weeks they were longing to find a solution  – one night Annabelle took Dream and placed her between Sigfried and herself – as the child finally fell asleep appeased by the warmth and comfort of her parents they both fell into a deep and much needed slumber.         And sleep they did.     After months and months of waking up every hour,  rocking the baby, cuddling her,  pacing up and down,  worrying about her they both slept soundly knowing that baby was wedged between them tucked in safe and sound.

   

They slept so profoundly that when Annabelle finally woke the next day she turned over and gazed at her baby child  – but her sweet face was slightly squashed up against Sigfrieds back and as she took her into her arms she saw that  her cheeks were no longer rosy pink but white and pasty.   She was alarmed to see black bags under her eyes – she couldn’t hear her breathing, her body was limp,  cold to the touch – she gently stroked her arm then shook her more violently screaming  Dream Dream wake up now its morning – Her crying woke Sigfried  and they both stared at their child …

The baby girl had been compressed between their weight.    Both dead to the world in their need to catch up on their sleep they had neither heard her protests nor felt the baby being slowly flattened between them as they tossed and turned  – gradually suffocating  her.

They had  crushed their dream   

I've had enough

Sarah

I've had enough – IV – rev
(27.10.2019)

There's going to be a storm.  I can see the tree tops swaying.  More than swaying—they are nearly bent in two.  I can hear them rustling even through the double windows.
Bang, goes the door.  That darned cat—has it got into my room again?  Despite the toy farm wedged up against the door?  (Why do I have nothing else but my grand-children’s abandoned toys to shore up that door against my nosy cats?  Always trying to get in there and scratch up my mother's brocade armchair or my grandmother's old Chinese carpet!)
Bang!  I'll have to go up and wedge it tighter.  Bang! bang!  Is that animal going in or coming out?  And which one of them is it?  Bang, bang.  Drat those cats!
Ah, it's not the cats.  It's the wind.  Push that farm up against the door and fix it in there with a tile from the floor.  (Drat those grandchildren for pulling up the tiles!)  Bang, bang!
I haven't heard from anybody for several days.  They must all be busy.  School, work, shopping, sports, drama groups, homework, housework, they always have something going on.  Well, I've got my puzzle.  And all those sheets from when they were here last week.  Bang!  Stop that!
Dr-r-ring, dr-r-ring.  That must be Ricky!  I've phoned him five times.  No.  Unknown number.  I’m not answering, no.  On principle.  Why do they bother one so?  Bang, bang!  Bang!  Is there nothing that will stop that door?
M-r-reow, m-r-reow.  What's with you cats?  You've been fed.  You've been more than fed.  Oh, you want me to sit down.  Bang, bang!  I haven't got time to sit down; maybe later.
Bang, bang!  Oh, you mean the wind.  Poor cats!  It's driving me bats too.  Bang!  My, god!  Will the wind stop?
Dr-r-ring, dr-r-ring!  Same number.  Maybe it's important.  Hello?  Hello?  Nobody there!  Bang!  Fuck you!  I hope they're listening.  Bang, bang.
Why doesn’t Ricky call back?  There's no point in trying any of the others, not at this hour.  Bang.  They're all at work or at school.  Bang, bang!  Bang!
This plant needs water.  Bang, bang!  Bang, bang, bang!
Oh, dammit! Take this! And this! 
And she heaved the plant at the window, which didn't break.  So she tore the phone out of its socket and heaved it after it.  And then the chair, which finally broke the window.  “I've had enough!” she screamed.  She sank down on the other chair, the only one left, and whimpered, “I've had enough.  I've had enough.”
+ 425 wds





____________________________________________________________
Annemarie

The Ambassador's Lament – I’v Had Enough

Below the spires of learned Oxford,

Beside the shining Cherwell waters,

I studied French and modern history.

My aim to be an English diplomat
Working for the Foreign Office,

(That place of privilege and mystery),

Attending presidents and queens and princes

In palaces and embassies and courts,

Regarding trade and other cultures,

Sharing grubby secrets of the state

And sometimes mending fences,

Then sending back my long reports.

I imagined luscious luncheons and busy banquets

Drinking Scotch and bubbly Bollinger,

Canapés, pâtisseries and caviar.

Then I had some foreign postings

- To China and to Africa, to India and Norway,

Where in return for Britain hosting

I must eat what others offer.

Chitterlings from pigs'  intestines,

Smelling like putrescent bins;

Mopani worms and bunny chow,

Swallowed sickly, downed with drink

While the guest of Cape Town's latest author.

Just along the Bergen shore way,

Dining with the newest NATO link

And discussing Norway's naval state

I thought it very funny how 

I had to brave the smalahave and again the dreadful dravle,

A milky sweet with floating curds of cheese.

But worst of all was lutefisk,

Old fermented fish immersed in lye,

Gelatinous and very slimy,

It almost had me on my knees.

Then on to China's oriental land

Where many dinners had been planned.

With determination and diplomacy,

I emptied bowls of birds' nest soup

And put myself at greater risk,

By eating chicken feet  and baby mice.

I emptied every bowl and my host refilled it every time,

With rooster's testicles and other stinky stuff.

Until I pleaded, “Show me mercy;

Not another slice at any price-

Too many festivals - I'VE HAD ENOUGH.”

_________________________________________________________


Jackie's interpretation of "I've had enough"

I’m–out of breath all puffed out and gasping for air.    Since I got up this morning poked my nose outside my burrow it has been one long run from those hunters.    My friends the foxes, badgers, deer and wild boar are all on the alerte.     It is that time of the year when we have to be watchful and are listening to the sounds of footfalls in the forest – twigs cracking and hunters shouting to each other guns at the ready – waiting to shoot us down strip us of our flesh and eat us for their supper.   

 October to end of February is nightmare time for us animals.  The hunters are usually only active during the day but recently some of them have set up night cameras to watch our movements and track our homes.  How dare they do this.   Give us some peace humans.      Our friend  badger recently came face to face with one of these cameras and his face was reflected back at himself – gave himself quite a scare.    He quickly moved his family from their den to another place in the woods – checking for footprints pricking up his ears and  listening for other human signs.

from September to February – wide awake and always on our guard the winter months are the worst for us animals.    A few of us are very lucky to be able to hibernate – digging deep retreats in the earth under large trees or in hedgegrows we are able to escape from the hunting men 

The worst is those dogs.     Shut up all year round the hunting dogs are released after having spent months cooped up in cages sometimes and at best a small courtyard.   They are hungry for exercise and the taste of blood – our blood  waiting to pounce and tear us to pieces. 

Those dogs act upon commands and when the whistle blows they either just go hell for leather and leap into water , jump over logs and just generally want one thing in the world above all and that is to please their masters and boy can they run fast. 

I’ve had Enough of this carnage,  enough of all this shooting killing and eating meat

Leave us alone you human beings let us live our lives quietly