Through the window

Geraldine's story

Morning or evening skyline

My familiar friend

You’re the rhythm of my days

Endlessly, over and over again.

 

White , in the winter

You tare the sky from the ground

With a soft, smooth line

Not always seen with the eye.

 

Spring brings you back with colours

Your trees slowly raising with a

Sharper distinction between the greens

A few cows scattered below grazing.

 

At midday, when the summer sun rises high

Your shadow starts streching along the hill

But I lose you in the afternoon,

Shutting the curtains to keep fresh indoors.

_____________________

Sarah's story 

Through the window 2  Annie
(17.10.2024)

She woke up to a sunny day.  Spring!  It was here for sure.  She could just glimpse out of the corner of her eye, through the window, what must be apple trees in bloom.  She had always loved apple trees, their blossoms the quintessence of airy lightness, so that one never wanted their flowering to stop, even though the falling of the petals was a promise of apples in the fall.  It was going to be a lovely day outside.  Yet she felt disgruntled, irritated.  Because she could not yet go out.  Since her operation the doctor had been reassuring, she was making progress, he assured her with his habitual broad smile, but it was slow, she felt.  And the doctor looked serious enough when he was talking to her son.  Whatever were they saying together?
Thank goodness for her son.  He had been the man to lean on since her husband died.  It had not been a surprise when Jacob died, no: he was more than a decade older than she was, and had had Parkinson's for years.  That had been the bad surprise, because he wasn't that old.  She had been the one to have cancer ten years before that; at the time they had been worried about her, but she had pulled through.  And then Jacob had started to show signs: his hands trembled, he dropped things, he had sudden uncontrollable rages.  It had become too difficult to take care of the house and garden, so they had sold it all and moved to a flat in town.  That had worked for a few years, then Jacob had got so bad they had had to put him in a home.  She had gone to see him every day.
Some of her friends hinted that it would be a release for her when he died, that she would get her life back again.  But she missed him.  Even though at the end it was not entirely sure that he knew who she was, he had seemed to brighten when she walked in, and seemed happy that she was there, though they couldn't talk; she sat there reading or knitting or doing crosswords and from time to time they exchanged a glance.  Or rather, she looked at him, because his eyes never seemed really to focus on anything in particular.  He wouldn't eat unless she was there to feed him.  
He had died in September, and somehow she had got through the winter, though she never felt really up to anything.  Her friends proposed outings but she rarely went.  The cinema didn't attract her nowadays, it was either violent or silly, and it tired her to take long walks or to go out in the evening.  She preferred to tidy the flat, which always looked nice, to invite a friend to lunch from time to time, or to paint a little.  She had done a lot of painting before Jacob got bad, but after that she hadn't had time.  She was working now half time, which she had started when she went to the rest home every day, and the half salary was enough for her needs.  She had always been quiet, and a quiet life now suited her perfectly.
Then the trouble in her lungs had started.  It wasn't cancer again, she had stopped smoking, it was some sort of fungus that had got in there and finally the doctor had ordered an operation, which everyone said had been successful.  And she was actually getting stronger.  When Samuel, her son, had come to see her the day before she had said to him—no, she hadn't actually said it as she couldn't talk yet though they said she would be able to in a few days, but she had spelled out to him on the chart "we're going to make it!"
Now she looked through the window and she was impatient to be out there, in the glorious sunshine, among the new green, among the frothy apple trees.  Impatient, and then filled with new hope.  Better times were ahead, she felt it.  It was a firm conviction and it buoyed her up.  If only it could be right now!  She had read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass in her childhood, and had read Harry Potter to her children, and she almost believed in magic.  If she could just pass through the window, effortlessly, and be out there now, under the apple trees, feeling the sun on her arms, listening to the birds—the swallows were back, she had heard them—watching the clouds move gently across the blue sky.
Then the ward assistant came in, a friendly, fussy woman, for the morning care.  "We'll get you all washed up and pretty now, won't we?" the woman said.  That was flattery: she had never been pretty, she had had what they called a "nice face", and even that was growing prematurely old, she could see.  She had grown thinner, she knew, and the last time she had looked in a mirror she had started aback at the hollow cheeks and the threads of grey in her hair and the little lines that had appeared at the corners of her eyes.  But the woman was nice and would make her presentable at least, for when the doctor came. She let the woman wash her legs and arms, go round her neck and begin on her face.  She lifted her head a little to help and the wet cloth felt cool on her cheeks.  Then she sighed and fell back on the pillow.
"Now, if you'll just turn over, dearie, I'll do your back," said the woman.  "Please, if you would, just turn yourself over."
When there was no response and the woman lifted the patient's arm it fell back limply.  The eyes were closed, and yet it didn't seem ...   It was best to call the doctor.  The doctor looked at the lifeless form, and then pronounced what the ward assistant already knew to be true.
"She looks so peaceful," said the woman, "so happy."

_________________________________

Jackie's story

I saw a reflection of my life through the window.

Recently I wanted to start a new business.   

Yes ok, I am 75  and I’ve lived my life starting new business adventures – having fun and then another idea would appear and I’d change and start something else.   It’s in my  DNA and I cannot stop even at this late age. 

 I see these projects, life changes, new ideas as windows in my life.

I won’t bore you with the details of things that I have done in my existence as we would be here all day but as a new project crosses my mind I have though come across a barrier this time.

Part of the fun of having a new idea is in the planning, researching and projecting myself into this new start-up.

I’d spend weeks even months and sometimes years looking through this window of ideas and imagining and perfecting,  projecting myself how I would be in my new role.   I’d spend hours stimulating this imagination looking through magazines, scrolling Pinterest, social media,  gleaning ideas and scheming.

There was such a surge of excitement and anticipation in this planning that sometimes when the idea was realized the actual doing it became dull and I was tired of it almost before it got going.

As I explained this idea to my bank manager he said  – “there is no way” you are too old and there are no guarantees.    

So be it, I have enough windows to look through and today I’m looking back and re-opening each of them and experiencing  satisfaction, contentment, fulfillement, happiness and joy knowing that I could not have done better and would probably look happily through these same windows if I were born again and were to do the same thing.

 Annemarie's story

Through the Window

   I watched as a crow flapped it’s wings in a steady rhythm, glided, then swooped down into the field. The sky was a mass of louring  indigo clouds hovering over the ripening wheat fields and I am reminded of Van Gogh's painting.

“I wonder if he foresaw his own death, if knew he was about to die?” I asked Tim.

“Who? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Vincent van Gogh. You know the chap who cut his ear off. His last painting was of lots of crows flying over a field of wheat under a threatening sky, just like now; in the middle a rough road  ends abruptly; just now I was watching a big black crow swoop into the wheat field. Soon after he painted it Van Gogh shot himself and he died a couple of days later. Wondered if he knew it was his last.”

   Tim grunted, somewhat preoccupied. “I wouldn’t know. Not really interested in art, as you know. And really, I’d rather you kept quiet after what you’ve put me through,” he added ominously.

    I stared ahead. The sky turned grey and menacing and  fat blobs of rain hit the windscreen, getting faster and denser, splashing against the glass until the wipers were swishing so fast they could barely keep pace.

    Tim leant forward gripping the steering wheel, peering through the rippling rain. I look nervously at his bony hands jiggling the wheel this way and that as he struggles to see the road, the headlamps only succeeding in illuminating the tumultuous downpour.

“I can barely see the bloody road; might have to pull up if it gets any worse but I just want to get home.  I think we have to take a left somewhere. Fuck this bloody weather,” he cursed.

“Please, Tim, please just stop now. Pull up and we’ll sit it out. Please.”

  Turning his head to look at me, his face angry and vulnerable at the same time, he hissed,

“Just shut up will you; I'll never forgive you for…”

and I heard no more as the car screeched and skidded, then a huge jerk as we crashed through something and for a micro second we were suspended in beating wet air, before the car tilted and hit deep water -  deep, dark  water.

   I screamed for Tim. The shock of cold water as it filled the car had me gasping for air and gulping water at the same time. Desperately in those few seconds  I tried to remember what to do in a submerged car... undo safety belt; I struggle to find it, I’m shivering and my hands are frozen, clumsy,  I can’t undo the effing thing; stretch up and breathe some air…. Panicking I turned to see Tim climbing through his window.  I twist round in my seatbelt - so sluggardly in the dragging water - and try opening mine   but the electrics are no longer working. I try to push open the door - impossible. The backend of the car is sinking faster; there’s still air at the front. Pushing my hands down on my seat  I gulp again;  I’m oh so cold. There’s a movementm outside the windscreen and I think  I  discern Tim swimming round to my side. The water washes around my chin as I strain and reach for the tiny air pocket above my head.

Through the window I can just see his murky head, his hair streaming upwards as he presses a macabre face against the window, his nose squashed and his lips playing a grim smile. Then he turns away; I think I saw  a watery wave of his hand as I gulped again…water… cold…….bla-a-ck……dir-ty …..wa…”.

 

________________

Paula's story

The argument — how many had there been already, just that weekend alone? —had escalated into much more than an argument. It suddenly had turned into a referendum on their relationship as a whole. His whole body had tensed, and he thought, finally, this is it. This. Is. It. This is how a love affair ends.

He took a deep breath and said in a steady voice, “Sonia. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this for one more day. I’m done.”

It wasn’t always like this. When Jack and Sonia met at the party of a mutual friend, there was a crackling connection, an electricity so vibrant that they both looked around them at the other guests, thinking others must have — had to have — felt it. The next few months were blissful in a way neither had ever before experienced. Their conversations lasted for hours, their love-making even longer sometimes. They would tell each other that they had never before felt so safe with another person. Never before had they understood true intimacy.

Maybe it was inevitable that such passion should eventually include such volatility. Their fights were loud and angry. They felt like endings. Yet, after a day or two of silence, they would rush back into each other’s arms, wondering how they could have said the things they said, how they could have hurt each other so badly.

And after each battle, and each reconciliation, Sonia felt just a little bit emptier inside. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? She felt like she was losing herself in Jack’s presence, that she had started relying on him to provide her emotional well-being, her sense of self-worth. She started feeling like she was losing her very identity.

Worst of all, worse than the arguments themselves, was the fact that she didn’t like herself when they were screaming at each other. She had started to feel like she was always waiting for the next explosion. It didn’t feel healthy to her. And that’s what this latest fight had been about.

Jack had bitten back the very same feelings. Surely, two people as much in love as he and Sonia could work this out. But the very same worries had crept into his own mind, and he was afraid of losing her, of losing what they once had together, terrified to the point of contradicting everything Sonia said, even as every word she said echoed in his own brain.

As they each stood contemplating Jack’s words of finality, they fell silent. But the room itself wasn’t quiet. Through the open window, the voices of children playing in the street wafted into the vast space between them. Happy calls and cheers echoed off the high ceiling, incongruous sounds invading the scene of two people locked in battle, two lovers once so in love and now caught in a vile pattern of accusations and recriminations. It felt so odd, this sound of joy, an uninvited guest intruding on a moment of extraordinary heartbreak.

They stood silently, breathing hard, facing each other. Jack’s tears came first, and Sonia’s followed in an instant. As immediate as that first electric sense of recognition when they met, came the same sense of recognition that it was over.

They walked slowly toward each other, and embraced, haltingly.

“We can still be friends,” Jack began weakly. But he knew it wasn’t true.

Sonia shook her head, turned, and walked out the door.

 

 

 

 

Don't shoot the messenger

 

_________________________ 

Don't shoot the messenger

Patrice Naparstek

Wed, 25 Sep

The silence was dense, and still, and mysterious.  it was as I had read described in countless novels - but had never experienced until now.  A silence that had weight and even form.

And then it was broken by a shout from above and the thundering of feet, breakneck down the stairs.  He had been upstairs packing a bag, getting ready to leave while I was to apologize to this woman for never having trusted her, nor liking her, nor letting down my guard while I was around her.  For wanting to close my door to her, for wanting time with my husband without her presence, to drink my coffee without her clatter in my ear.

When he went to pack, his parting words to her as he passed beneath the archway was, “Tell her who you are.”  He left the room and she pulled a stool in front of me, sat down, her knees almost touching mine, and began to speak.  As so often happens to me when emotions become too big, too fast, too soon, I couldn’t really parse what she was saying though I heard words.  

“Seven years, we feel it’s fate, you knew and did nothing, you never liked me and I deserve to be liked, I am valuable.”

I heard the phrases, I knew their meaning, and I understood that they paved a road that I would traverse in the very near future.  As she talked I thought of all the  past conversations about my fears, my discomfort with their closeness, about her presence, like a second wife, in our lives.  I thought of all the times he told me I was imagining things, I was being immature and I felt wounded in the softest part of my being.  

I thought of his cowardice, the way he hd made her his messenger.  He left the room to pack a bag while I was to sit there

and listen to her tell me “who she was”.  And god help me, I did.  For a while.

I put my hand on the table beside me - letting my fingers rest on one of the small collections of stones and rocks that were scattered throughout the house.  I collected them while gardening or hiking, filling my pockets with their lovely shapes and colors.  I could name every place each was taken from: the hike, those who were with me.  I let the weight of my arm and hand drape my fingers over a handful of the stones and felt their connection to the ground fill me.  

She was still talking.  Earnestly, but beneath I could feel her sense of superiority, her belief that what she was saying was what she should say, that it was a right for her to explain that she loved him, that she was on this earth to help him fulfill his life’s purpose, and in doing so her own.  She was his messenger.  

I thought, “Don’t kill the messenger! Don’t. If you are going to kill anyone let it be him.”  And then I laughed.  Well, at first it was a bubble, a giggle, but then it was an outright guffaw, proportionate to the ridiculous situation.  And with the laugh came a mobilizing energy that broke my docility, my inaction.  I took up the largest rock on the table next to me.  A round white one that I had recently unearthed from the garden and couldn’t put back.  It felt warm in  my hand, I cupped it for a moment and with surprising agility I stood, wound my arm like a pitcher, and flung it as hard as I could across the room.  

I hit my target.  Dead center in the middle of the bay window.  The glass cracked then the pieces fell.  she had  jumped up from the stool, a very satisfying look of fear on her face.  The silence followed.  And then his feet on the stairs.  I turned to see him, bag in hand - I was surprised that he had the foresight to bring it down with him - and I laughed again.  

I thought tea was in order, a sit in the garden, a call to the glazier.  They would do what they had been doing.  I had begun.

 

 

 

Geraldine's story    - DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER

 On this very important day, all the citizens, those who felt citizens in the city, in the country,  of the world, were gathered on the main square of the small town they belonged to.

It happened to be a period of history where everything had got crazy : nobody knew the difference between a real and a fake element, nobody knew where to spot the lyers and how to detect  the reliable people, nobody knew what was right from what was wrong anymore.

Where did the devil stand ?  Were was God, and which one ? Why this God and not that one ?

What were the rules for living in Society ?   Who took decisions, why and for whom ?

And in this complete and utter muddle, the citizens were asked to choose the person who would lead their country for the next few years ahead !

 Quite a few of them, completely muddled up, didn’t know what to do, so they didn’t do anything – they quit – they left it to the others !

Some others tried to untangle the different elements and to find a window through which they could start seeing something that looked like possible, maybe naive, but where goodwill was a central feature, others were lead by the character that had the money and the power, a few tried to understand what was going on and how they could really participate to what was still called a « democracy ».

The polling stations where about to close within the next half hour.

From the far, the people gathered around the main place started hearing rumours on the left side of it as well as on the opposite right side.  It looked like 2 columns of people approaching at more or less the same speed.  As they  started arriving on the scene, you could notice that the men (no women)  were carrying guns and dressed in blue and red.

They marched to the middle of the square, the blue men forming a half circle on the one side and the red ones taking place on the right.  This formed a perfet circle, half blue and half red with riffles held on both side.

More and more people were reaching the place.  By now, it looked quite surrealistic, not very far from the last scene of Sergio Leone’s film « The Good, the Bad and the Ugly » but without that dramatic music…

Breaths were held short, silence grew larger…

Then, from very far away, a cavalcade announced itself, dust and earth being lifted and scattered round the rider.  The sound of galloping grew louder and louder and the silhouette of the horse and it’s messenger became closer and closer….

They were going to know !

As the messenger was reaching the place, all the riffles were pointed towards him, the red and the blue and the crowd ‘s cry grew louder and louder :

« Don’t shoot the messenger » ! It’s certainly not his fault… 

And when the bang went off, I heard this soft redeeming voice right next to my ear:

« I brought you some coffee sweatheart ! Sounds as if you’ve been through a few nightmares last night »

 

Jackie's contribution

Don’t shoot the messenger

André sat in the café slowly sipping his morning café au lait He was hesitating about eating another croissant –   Relishing in the fact that he was a little early for work and had another ½ hour before setting out He was assistant to the High Commissioner in the city.

A group of men sitting at a table just behind him were chatting and bit by bit their voices got louder and louder piercing the quiet and calm of the café with intersperced laughter and cries – there seemed to be a firey conversation going on.     Slapping the table and stamping feet -  and cries of something he thought could be Arabic

 A few choice words escaped from the loudy group - words he heard that made him gulp and almost choke – he froze and paid more attention to what they were saying.     Pretending to be absorbed by his phone – scrolling down, smiling occassionally so as not to appear to be concerned by their conversation

 

He pondered on the way to work as to whether he should tell someone about what he had overheard  -  but who?  

As he passed children on their way to school, young men off to the gym, women out shopping dressed smartly starting their day. He imagined the chaos that could come about if this information wasn’t relayed in time and the project these men were talking about came true..     Injuries would be numerous and there could even most certainly be loss of life.   

 

    He was desperate to talk to someone.     His boss – he imagined would not believe him in the first instance and so it would have to be a neutral person – a friend perhaps –His old school friend worked nearby at some sort of administrative post – he had never quite discovered what.   40 years ago they played cowboys and indians – In play he was always the victim and the play always ended with him shouting I didn’t do it … but he felt this was someone he could trust and help him with his decision.   

 

Later that day he was called into the commissioners office.   A  usually jovial man -  normally of a sunny disposition – but now he was behind his desk and grunted what amounted to a  greeting  as André walked in – his face sombre even dark and threatening.     I have heard from a good source that you are involved in a very serious threat to our country    What have you got to say about this?   André blanched.    I – I - he stuttered, I overheard someone in a café this morning …and  confided the information to a good friend as I wasn’t sure it was for real.  

But its got nothing to do with me Sir - he added

 

Are you the instigater of this information? If this attack does  occur we shall be completely responsible for anything that happens.  I shall lose my job and you deserve to be shot as the messenger of the information.    NO no André cried,  blinking back tears  thinking of his three children and lovely wife at home.    

 

Andre stood in the firing squad of the cities High commissioner’s back courtyard – a place he had never known existed.   His trusted friend of 40 years faced him with a rifle but not a plastic one this time  – he shouted “Don’t shoot the messenger”  Please

 

________________________________

Don't shoot the messenger – 4  Prime Minister – revised variation 2

(05.09.2024) by Sarah

 

"Holy crap, what've you got that on for?"  Jake was referring to the blond wig his friend Kevin had on.  "And why the hell are you wearing gloves?"

"Just felt like it."

"You're not planning to celebrate."  It was not a question, exactly, though it was half of one.  Kevin said nothing.  They took their places in the crowd in front of the presidential palace and wormed their way to the front.

Normally presidential annoucements were made on television, or in the newspaper.  But this president had been making changes, each one bringing the country or the government or himself closer to the ways and habits of royalty.  Jake and Kevin couldn't care less about royalty, but Jake was always ready for a good laugh, and Kevin, though he took politics more seriously, loved a joke in his own way.  So today, partly as a lark and partly out of real interest, the two of them had decided to go in person to see the event and find out, under these highly dramatized circumstances, who the new Prime Minister was going to be.

The President was apparently going to make the announcement himself.  He had dramatically shut down Parliament four months before, calling for new elections and the stunned country had pulled itself together and voted in an opposition majority.  But in this country things did not happen automatically, and it was not for the majority to name the leader of the new government but for the President himself.  And he had found one pretext after another to put off this nomination, and continue to run the country with the old government, theoretically "resigned" but technically still in operation.

"He's been doing it on purpose," said Jake.

"I know."

"He takes us for a bunch of fools."

"I know."

"There's that insane law that allows him to go on as long as he likes and we can't do anything about it."

"I know."

"You keep saying the same damn fool thing all the time, you know that?"

"I know."

But now the President had announced that he was ready to name the new leader of the government and the country was on tenterhooks, in that no law obliged the president of the country to name a Prime Minister of the elected majority; he was free to name whoever he pleased.  Names were circulating: Blodger, of the far right, and Leczinsky of the far left, but no-one expected either of them to be chosen; Banks, the favourite of the right; Edison and Ford of the presidential party; and Anna Morales of the left, which was now the real majority. 

"If he doesn't name Morales, there's going to be trouble."

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"He won't."

"There you go again.  Have you nothing else to say?"

"He won't."

Now the presidential door had opened and a man came out onto the balcony.  A murmur of disappointment ran through the crowd.  They had expected the President; it was instead someone almost nobody knew, one James Smith.

"Don't tell me he's named him!"  Jake was puzzled.  "What party does he represent anyway?"

More murmurs, of surprise and curiosity, rippled through the crowd.  But optimisim and curiosity were up.  Everyone was hoping the man would be inclined to favour the party of their choice. 

"Shut up.  Listen.  He's only the messenger." 

Which was true.  When the murmurs died down, the man began to speak in suave, educated tones, excusing the President for having taken so long but things were complicated, etc etc., on and on.

A few "boo"s, and "get on with it"s were heard from the impatient citizens, but mostly they listened intently, and finally Smith got around to what they were waiting for.

"The new Prime Minister, you will certainly be pleased to hear, with his long record of experience and efficacity, is ... Ethan Banks."

Anger and disappointment stirred the crowd.  Kevin pulled a gun out of his inner pocket.

"Don't shoot the mesenger," cried out Jake in alarm, before he noticed it was only a toy, made of silver plastic.

The ball flew out and landed square on the speaker's white shirt, leaving a spreading red stain.  As the crowd shrieked and began to run in all directions and police began to close in from all sides, Kevin said "Duck" and he ducked himself, tearing off the wig and the gloves and Jake's red cap, throwing them to the ground with the paintball gun.  Then he straightened up again, and pulled Jake firmly by the sleeve before he could protest, as he intended to. 

"Put these on," he said tersely, handing Jake a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

"What the heck ...?" began Jake, who was feeling very exposed without the cap to cover his prematurely bald skull. 

"Shut up and walk."  And so the two young men pushed themselves through the panicking multitude as the police looked for a blond guy and his accomplice with a red baseball cap.

Well, it was only a joke, but it caught the fancy of the public.  Impromptu marches sprang up everywhere, as official protestations would of course not have been authorized.  Half of the work force went on strike.  The movement grew so monumental that it made the economy tremble, and finally the President himself resigned, there was a new election, and by a close margin Anna Morales was elected.  She chose a Prime Minister from her own ranks, and there were great celebrations in the country, as well as vociferous protestations from all the other sides, as usual.  Jake mourned the loss of his LA Dodgers cap and Kevin that of his blond wig, but otherwise they were happy.

Unfortunately, this is not the way things really happened.

 

+ 960 wds