A Ghost Story in 100 Words

Maybe some of you know our Yorkshire-based fellow blogger L and her blog "Thirdage Blogger". Ever since I read her ghost story in 100 words last December, I was making up my own mini story. But only now, during this weekend home alone, I have gotten round to put it in writing:

Maisie and Bert

Early evening light fell into Bert's bedroom. The door creaked softly.  

"That you, Maisie?" 

She came in, the same smile on her face that had captured his heart all those years ago when he had first seen her. "Yes, Bertie." 

Her comforting hand, light as a feather on his cheek; love in her eyes, as beautiful as when she had looked at him at their wedding. 

Tonight, sleep was going to come easy. 

 

"What a coincidence," Dr. Parker mumbled as she was filing Bert's death certificate into the folder. "Their dates of birth and death are exactly five years apart." 

The Widow in the Window

To her neighbours, she is a familiar sight: the woman on the window sill.

Of course, only a fine day will make her appear there; dressed according to temperature, she will sit on her window sill for hours on end, sometimes reading, sometimes with her eyes closed and her face turned up to catch some of the precious few sunrays a typical mid-European summer has to offer.

She is rarely seen without a book, a glass of water and her mobile phone nearby.

Every now and then, she will open her eyes, put her glasses back on, and glance around the gardens and the road she can see from her vantage point, usually when some sound has caught her attention.

Sometimes the big doves forget that she is there and fly past very close on their way to the big old tree in the next garden where they like to sit and talk, so close in fact that she thinks she can feel the flapping of their wings.

A big fat bumblebee is paying a visit and the woman politely moves to make room, whereas a wasp can induce her to jump down back into the room when it does not quickly continue its quest for food or a nesting place elsewhere.

On the road nearby, cyclists are shouting to each other, unsure of which turn to take. Someone is walking past pushing a pram and talking to the little one in it. The elderly lady from upstairs is weeding her vegetable patch in the garden below the window, and calls out to the woman up there, for fear she could fall asleep and end up breaking her neck on the small patio.

The woman does not sleep, though. She is listening to the world around her, while her mind is either busy with some mental image or the brewing process of ideas in full swing. And sometimes, she enjoys just thinking of... nothing, letting her mind drift where it takes her.

Which could be practically anywhere.

An Adventure I Did Not Have... Part III

(Please read http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/09/adventure-i-did-not-have-or-did-i-cont.html before you continue; thank you!)

Walter had been here for so long that he had almost forgotten about the world that was out there and up there.
Somewhere deep down in his memory, buried under layers of other memories, there were faint recollections of big open spaces, a bright and warm light called the sun, of birdsong and people's voices, of wind in his hair and grass under his feet.

But there were also memories of gunshots, of hard fists and shouting voices, and of a run that seemed to go on forever and left him so breathless and with every part of his body shaking and in pain that he thought he was going to die.

Die he didn't; instead, he found this place where there was everything he needed.
At first, he had felt apprehensive about using a bed and opening cans of food that were originally not meant for him, but when he realized there was no-one else going to claim any of it, he settled into a rhythm which, unbeknownst to him, still followed the old familiar pattern of day and night, with sleeping and waking hours.

There was not much difference between sleeping and waking here, and certainly none between day and night, and sometimes he was not quite sure whether what he saw and heard was part of a dream or really happening.
Not that he actually cared; his dreams were just as real to him as the rough blanket of the bunk bed and the cold metal of the water tap.

It was no surprise, therefore, that he was sure he was dreaming when the woman appeared.
The sounds of her cautious footsteps he had heard minutes before she reached his place, and squinted in the flickering light from those bulbs that were still intact.

What actually convinced him of her being real he couldn't tell, but the idea of coming face to face with another human after such a long time down here on his own scared him no end, and he decided to hide, slipping out of the room and shutting the metal door behind him.

Trembling, he leaned against the tunnel wall. He closed his eyes - the light still hurt him - and shook his head slowly from side to side.
Now the woman was in there, where HE belonged, not her.
Was she going to make one of the beds her own, like he had done back when he had found the room? Was she going to eat the food that had become his sustainment?

It wouldn't do, no. She was part of that other world, not of this one.
He had to do something.

So, very slowly and carefully, like someone approaching a venomous snake that will strike when it feels threatened, he opened the door again and crept back into the room.

An Adventure I Did Not Have... Or Did I? (cont.)

(Please read http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/09/adventure-i-did-not-have.html in order to know what this is about.
Note: This part was written by my "co-author", the same one who wrote a part for my dolphin story.)

After she had a quick bite to eat her curiosity got the better of her and she headed back to the tunnel. Armed with only her LCD keychain flashlight, she crawled over the barricade and cautiously walked down the concrete steps. It turned out that there were a dozen steps in total. When she arrived at the bottom her flashlight came across a metallic box on the wall with a lever on the side of it. She took this to be a power switch and flipped the lever.

She could hear a slight buzzing noise and then some lights overhead illuminated, showing a long tunnel. There were some dark spots which she assumed were due to burnt light bulbs. She was actually quite surprised that there were some that weren’t burnt. With the lights on she could see large arrows painted on the wall pointing inwards to the tunnel. She also saw several large looking cobwebs. She went back outside to grab a stick she had seen lying on the ground. She’d use this to help clear the cobwebs out of her way.

She placed her keychain back in her pocket and decided to see where the tunnel led. She walked roughly 50 meters before the tunnel made a sharp right turn. She was starting to get the smell of something musty. She figured that the air would be stale but it really wasn’t. The further she went in the tunnel the less stale it seemed. She walked another 20 meters before coming across a large steel door that looked more like a door to a vault.

The doorway led into a large room but without all the lights working it was hard for her to see how large it actually was. There were long rows of bunk beds along the walls and a whole bunch of tables and chairs in the middle of the room. There was a sign near the door detailing what to do in the case of a nuclear strike. It was a bomb shelter!

Beneath the sign was a clipboard with some documentation. The shelter was provided by the rail road company, for its passengers. The maximum recommended capacity was 250 people. The documentation also indicated that there was enough food and water for 1 month. There was also a backup generator in case the shelter lost power.

She decided to explore the room further. She ran her finger across the surface of a table and picked up several decades worth of dust. She slapped her hands together to shake off the dust and then wiped the remains on her pants. When she got to the back end of the room she noticed something strange. It appeared that one of the bunk beds had been made and that the covers were in disarray. There also appeared to be several cans and bottles strewn around the base of the bed.

It looked like someone was living in the shelter. Just then she heard a scraping sound from the direction of the door, which was followed by a metallic screeching sound. The vault door had slammed shut. It took her a minute to comprehend what just had happened. “No, no, no, no, no, no, noooooooooo!” She ran to the door and slapped it with her hands; they made a dull thudding sound. “Hey! Wait! There’s someone in here!!!”

After about a minute she realized that the door was too thick for any sounds to get through. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and cursed. “There’s no signal in here. Oh crap, crap, crap, crap!” She ran around the room looking for another way out. In one corner was a door that led to the supply room and in another corner was a door that led to the washrooms. She tried one of the taps and the water was initially rusty but soon ran clear. At least she’d have drinkable water. She heard the scraping sound coming from behind her. She turned around and let out a high pitched scream.

An Adventure I Did Not Have

Today, I did not have an adventure, although there was one practically offering itself to me on a silver plate.

On my way home, I loosely follow the rail tracks leading through the small town where I work to the bigger town where I live.
At various points, those rail tracks are crossed by bridges.
One of the narrower bridges was blocked off when I walked past today, and there was a rather big hole in the road in front of it.
Something in the hole caught my eye, and I went back to have a better look.

What I saw were three or four concrete steps, leading from an underground room which had obviously been there all along and was now exposed, into a tunnel just about big enough for an adult to crawl through it, and that tunnel seemed to go right underneath the now blocked-off bridge.
The underground room was empty apart from common building debris, and the steps were clean; the tunnel was a black square with nothing visible in it.

What was the purpose of both the room and the tunnel? Who built it there, and when?
The bridge itself is not very old; it was, if I am not mistaken, erected in the 1950s or 60s, so the room and the tunnel are most likely from the same period.

The road block was only about hip-high, and I could have easily climbed over it and down into the hole to investigate the mysterious tunnel.
As a child, I am quite sure I would have done it.
Now, though, I heard the group of cleaners that had just come out of the big office building I had walked past a few minutes ago, almost right behind me.
And it was late, I had been at work for almost 10 hours and was starving, my stomach constantly reminding me with loud rumbles that I should really go home and get something to eat.

My tummy won.

Loneliness Deserved

(This is the continuation of my "Dolphin" story: http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/05/to-hug-dolphin-continued.html )

The storm had long blown over, and, in retrospect, life had gone back to normality at a surprising speed; daily business was soon resumed by almost everyone, including herself.
There was work and there were her walks along the beach which she had taken up again only a few weeks after the storm, always looking out for her friend, the dolphin.

As before, the dolphin was sometimes there and sometimes he wasn't; she was used to the erratic pattern (wich really wasn't much of a pattern at all) of his visits to "her" part of the beach.

Then, there came a period of prolonged absence.
Such periods had been there before, and when at first she had been terribly worried about the dolphin's wellbeing, she now knew that those periods were necessary and natural; a dolphin did, after all, have to do dolphin things from time to time.

But this time, when the period of absence ended and the dolphin came within her eyes' reach again, she had the distinct impression that something was different.
She could see the dolphin, and see that he was looking well and healthy, happily playing with those of his kind, but he would not come closer, as had been his habit before, or acknowledge her presence in any other way.

This went on for several days, and days turned into weeks.
At work, she sought to finish her tasks early so that she could hurry to the beach as soon as possible, always thinking "today he'll be there again!", only to see her hopes crushed once more.

She searched within her memory for anything that she could have possibly done to make the dolphin angry at her - could dolphins actually get angry? at humans? - but did not find an answer.

One evening, she had dashed to the beach again, and saw the dolphin in the distance.
Suddendly, exhaustion flooded her, and she sat down on the sand.

The old familiar feeling of being rejected was no surprise to her; too often in her life she had already been confirmed in her conviction that she must be, as a human, so faulty nobody could stand being around her for longer than necessary, and so boring that she could not hold anybody's attention long enough for friendships to grow properly (family not counting - they didn't have a choice).

If I disappeared off the face of the earth, she mused, what would happen?
The three or four family members that lived close by would most likely be the only ones to try and find out where she was; at work, people would probably be talking about her sudden disappearance for a while, and when someone new would be employed in her place, they would forget about her; and as for the other people who knew her in the way neighbours usually know each other, they wouldn't even notice her being gone.

Face it, she thought, you simply do not matter. You have never mattered and never will, and that's the long and short of it.

Grow up.

How The Cat Lost Its Thumbs

Many years ago, long before people had iPhones and governments had come up with laws about the curvature of cucumbers, all animals lived in harmony under the benign reign of their king, the Lion.

Humans were considered equals, not feared, and cats still had thumbs.

Soon, the cats found that their clever little brains enabled them to make the other animals do things for them, things they themselves couldn't be bothered to do or found below their dignity.
So they started to order everybody around, humans included.

Most of the other animals were peaceful enough to not mind doing the odd job for someone else every now and then, but the cats became increasingly demanding and haughty at the same time, to the point that the other animals agreed between each other that this had to stop.

They sent a delegation of their oldest and wisest to humbly present their case to the Good King.

The Lion listened patiently, as was his habit, and then closed his eyes, resting his chin on his big soft paws."He's asleep," someone whispered.
"He's not, he is thinking," someone else replied, also whispering.

With a swish of tail and throwing back of his impressive mane, after an hour or so the Good King opened his eyes again and looked intently at the cat.

"What," he said in his deep, velvety voice (but those who knew him well could detect a faint growl underneath the velvet), "what do you suggest we do with you, Cat?"

The Cat blinked, and quickly licked its left shoulder.
Then it replied: "If the other animals find it beneath themselves to assist my kind, I am sure the humans won't object. Assign them as my servants, if you please."

And although it tried to stare into the Lion's eyes, it only managed to hold that majestic amber gaze for the fraction of a second before it had to look away, quickly licking its right shoulder.

"Humans!" the Good King now boomed (his voice could do that, you know, without sounding ridiculous or aggressive - just mighty).

The humans, who had of course also been invited to the gathering, shyly came forward.
"Do you wish to serve the Cat?"
A fast, nattering discussion broke out among the humans, making them sound very similar to the monkeys.
Then their leader stood in front of their group, cleared his throat and said: "We will. But the Cat has to be kind with us, keep us company and make us laugh."

"Conditions," the Lion growled, "that are not easy to fulfill."
Once again, he closed his eyes and rested his chin on his paws, and thought long and hard for an hour or two.

Finally, he rose.
"You," he pointed at the group of humans with one long, sharp talon, reminding everyone that he wasn't their King just because he had a beautiful mane and a velvety voice,
"will have the Cat as company, and the Cat will be kind with you and make you laugh, for as long as you will serve its needs."
The humans bowed their heads, looked at each other and nodded.

"And you," now the long sharp talon was directed at the Cat,
"will have your wish granted with the humans assigned as your servants - but from this moment on, your thumbs are gone, and gone forever."

The Cat could instantly feel that something about its paws was different, and true enough, the thumbs it had formerly had were gone.
It shrugged, thinking "so what? I have my servants, I don't need thumbs," and elegantly and nonchalantly, it slunk away from the gathering, the group of humans trailing behind.

- - -

Several thousands of years later, things have changed for the cat and its humans.

There are still those among the human race who are willingly serving the cats' every need and whim, but often, cats do not get their orders executed instantly, if at all.
But, whereas in the past they could still do everything by themselves, if they so wished, they can not do that anymore.

You can't open a tin of cat food without thumbs.
You can't hold a brush properly without thumbs.
You can't clean a cat toilet without thumbs.
And there are many, many more things you can't do without thumbs, even if with your clever little brain you know exactly how these things are done.

Ever since the day they lost their thumbs, cats have secretly been thinking about how they could get them back.
They know a lot about us, and they know how most of the things we do are done, because they watch us, and they watch us closely.

So, the next time you are, say, changing a tyre on your car in the drive and your neighbour's cat is watching your every move, you know why it does that.
And when you hear a nightly chorus of cats on a balmy spring night, don't be fooled - these are not "love songs" or territorial marking, but a serious conference about how to get their thumbs back.

"To Hug A Dolphin" - Continued

- - - This continuation to my original "To Hug A Dolphin" was not written by me, but I like the idea of the author and have his permission to post this here. - - -
It is also the continuation of the whole Dolphin story:
http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/04/after-storm.html

You cannot pronounce my name in my native tongue, the closest you could come to it is by calling me Jacob. I am a Wave Rider. Wave Riders are considered amongst the bravest of my people. We usually travel together in groups but there are times where I need to be alone, to collect my thoughts. Being a Wave Rider is hard work and sometimes I need a break from it.

It is during one of these times that I noticed this lone creature by the shore. I have seen their kind before. Some of them ride the waves too, but not like we can. Usually they travel in groups too but sometimes I see one travelling outside the group. I wonder if they’ve lost their way from the group or if they are collecting their thoughts too.

If I’m travelling with my group and I see one of these creatures I pretend not to see them. For amongst my people they are known as the Death Bringers. A stigma is attached to you if you befriend one of these creatures, you’re branded a Death Lover and the group banishes you. I know that they’re not all Death Bringers as I have heard the stories from some of the Death Lovers. I’ve heard tales of bravery, compassion and friendship.

My tasks can take me away from the shore for weeks at a time, while we go in search of food. The main part of my task is to protect the Gatherers from our mortal enemies, namely the Sharp Teeths. They may be big and deadly but they’re slower than us in close quarters. We have to make sure that we don’t get too overconfident when dealing with the Sharp Teeths, my friend Marcus reminded us of that deadly lesson last season.

I just got back from a hunt and I’m weary. I broke away from the group so that I could rest and recharge. I saw the lone creature, this time close to the shore. I saw it enter the water and head towards me. Its body language indicated that it wasn’t trying to be hostile, the creature was slightly tense but cautious in its movements. I know that these creatures are not agile in my environment so I moved closer. The Death Bringer wrapped its upper appendages around me to hold me but not bind me. It placed its face on top of my head. I knew that the stories were true, that they weren’t all Death Bringers. I released a shout of joy that seemed to please my new friend.

A Pattern Repeated?

Heavy and weighed down was how she felt that morning. The lightness and ready smile that had been with her for the past few months was gone, and as a result she had to make a conscious effort to sit upright instead of slumping in her chair as she went through her usual amount of emails and other online activities.

It had happened again. Yes, yet again.
And she thought of the pattern that had been repeated before, too many times before.

First, there had been S. from C. He had obviously been proud and pleased to be her first man. It was something that mattered to men of his provenance even more than to others, and inexperienced as she had been back then, as well as not having any self-confidence to speak of, it had only seemed natural to her to assume that this was how things were supposed to be in a relationship.
After only a few years, she had to wake up to the fact that she was not, and was never going to be, the most important thing in his life. That place was already taken, by something as banal as TV.

It made her look for attention and confirmation elsewhere, and she found both with D. from B., until he found someone who was closer and "available", as he put it.
After D., there was G., very young, very strong, 2 m tall and a waterball player, who immediately told his actual girlfriend what had happened, so consumed by guilt he was.

S. from W. knew all about her, because she made sure he was not going to start anything with her being under a wrong impression. To her own surprise, he was not put off by her confession, but was even ready to leave his home country and move in with her. A bigger and much less pleasant surprise was to find out that he was an alcoholic, and once again she had to accept the truth, that there was something else that mattered a lot more than herself.

Her self-confidence at an all-time low, she spent a magic night with A., who never made it a secret that he was already in a relationship. Well, so was she, but she still had not expected him to retreat so completely from her.

Another rejection on her ever-growing list, she gave up on the idea of ever finding someone to whom she would matter, and a short series of equally short relationships followed, both of which she started and ended in the full knowledge of their unsuitability.

Then, during a particularly difficult period at home, she was so angry and sad that she finally confided in a friend.

Their friendship grew closer by this, and her friend was of enormous help, not only in dealing with the current situation, but also in her finding her way to self-acceptance and self-confidence.

Until something happened that made her friend retreat.
And she feared the recurrence of the old pattern of rejection.

But then she tought again, and found that, this time, there was no relation to the former pattern. This was different.
It was not her, and not her fault.
She understood, and in spite of the heaviness she felt momentarily, she knew that she would feel well again, and maybe not lose her friend entirely.

After the Storm

(This is the continuation to my "Dolphin" story:http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/04/to-hug-dolphin.html)


Shattered.

That was the adjective best describing her current situation, referring not only to her physical condition after a sleepless night spent in a draughty tent provided by the Red Cross, but also to everything she had known, treasured and possessed - in short, to her whole life.

The storm had started seemingly out of nowhere.
Meteorologists had probably more scientific-sounding vocabulary for it, but in the news it was called "a freak storm".
Fifteen minutes had been enough to wipe out the entire block of houses where she lived (or, rather, used to live, she mentally corrected herself) and cut a path of destruction through the small town near the Sea.

Shivering in the morning chill, she wrapped the slightly scratchy blanket given to her by a friendly nurse tighter around her shoulders and stepped out of the tent.
There it was, the flattened area that used to be "home".

Well, not entirely flat; there were heaps and piles of rubble, broken furniture and window frames, upturned dustbins and the general debris suburban civilization tends to create in a surprisingly short space of time.
Looking closer, and focusing on the details, she recognized objects that had once belonged to herself, and others she was pretty sure of having seen at one time or other in her neighbours' houses.

So far, no casualties had been reported.
But she knew better.
Something was dead, beyond the point of no return:
her old life.

Now, what to do?
Join those who were making efforts to rebuild what they once had, following the illusion that they could eventually return to their former lives?
Or make a clean cut, grab the chance the heartless, mindless and emotionless storm had created for her, and start a new life somewhere else, in time adjusting to a new place, a new route to work, new neighbours and - possibly - new friends?

Which way, that was the question she faced, and only she alone was able to find the answer to.

Her mind wandered to the dolphin.
Hopefully, he was alright.

Eggs, Silicon, Whiskey & Peas

What do eggs, silicone, whisky and peas have in common?
Or why should these things (or their remainders, like an empty dozen-eggs-box, an empty silicone sealant gun, an empty whisky bottle and about 10 large empty pea pods) end up together in a small pile under a bridge?

The possibilities are almost limitless. My mind is starting to spin a thread. Or, rather, more than one thread. Pick up a bit here, look at the length and strenght of this one over there, see how that one can be knotted together with others. Which one am I going to follow through long enough to put it into writing?

The little people living in the hedges near the bridge were having a feast. Someone had "found" a dozen-eggs-box which contained two slightly cracked eggs, the contents of which had begun to leak into the empty cups. For them, this wasn't a problem; their hands were small enough to scoop up the traces of raw egg and wash them down with the whisky left over in the bottle that had been thrown away by a certain civil servant from the nearby town on his way home, making sure that his wife would not find any incriminating clues in his car after he returned from a "business trip" that involved only himself and the voluptous brunette colleague he had been courting for months until she conceded to go away for a weekend with him.

The most adventurous of the little people's group dragged along an empty silicone sealant gun which made for some fun with the egg shells that could be tested for endurance against the pressure rod on the gun. The fun lasted until the last bit of egg shell was reduced to tiny crumbs which they hid under the now empty egg box.
Originally, the sealant gun had belonged to George. He had recently moved into his own flat and at first had been dizzy with the prospect of so much freedom after a rather unpleasant childhood and youth with dominating parents. The dizziness was soon replaced by worries about the state of the flat just as much as that of his finances. Such a lot of things needed doing and repairing! And even for minor repairs, when he resolved to get just the most necessary parts from the nearest B&Q, he ended up forking out a lot more money than he had expected. The shower basin was just one point on the seemingly endless list of to-dos, and George was rather proud of himself when he finally managed to seal it properly, hoping this was going to put an end to a wet bathroom floor every time he had a shower. Maybe a bit shortsightedly (but then again, George had never been the big planner), he had thrown the empty sealant gun away, not thinking that he was ever going to need one again.

Peas are excellent when they are freshly picked, and the little people knew that. This time, they had ventured into Mrs. Braithwaite's garden that bordered the back of their hedgerow. They did not always take from the same gardens and houses; this would have seemed unfair to their little-people-codex of morale, besides being dangerous because it could make one of their "hosts" suspect something was going on and start setting up traps, and all kinds of unpleasant things could happen. But Mrs. Braithwaite was an elderly lady with rather poor eyesight and hearing, and it was highly unlikely she was even going to notice the disappearing of anything from her vegetable patch. So, the ten large pods full of deliciously sweet peas were the dessert at the feast.

When everybody's bellies were full and a very nice warm sleepiness (no doubt also due to the whisky) made itself felt among them, the little people retreated into their hedgerow homes.
An attentive listener, if one had happened to come by the place now, would have heard a faint snoring sound coming from the bushes, and would have probably put it down to the typical noise a hedgehog makes.

Next time you think you hear a hedgehog, think again.

To Hug a Dolphin

Close to the shore she lived, and her lonely walks along the beach had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.

Then she befriended a dolphin.

The animal sometimes swam in the water close to where she would be walking, giving her the impression of accompanying her.
Soon, she looked forward to her walks even more than usual, and they became less lonely with her newfound friend.

The dolphin's visits did not seem to follow a pattern; there were periods when he would be there daily, and at other times, there were intervals of days or even weeks between one visit and the next.

When the dolphin wasn't there, she missed him, and she worried about him, thinking of all the dangers an animal living in the wild can encounter.

There were probably many more like her, she was sure of that, dotted along the coast, who delighted in the dolphin's company.

Every now and then, she would see groups of dolphins further out in the sea, and much to her own annoyance, she would feel excluded, almost deliberately snubbed.

She knew that dolphins have complex social lives and need their own kind just as much as they need to hunt for fish and breathe air.
She also knew and accepted that they both inhabited different worlds, separated by the natural limitations of their respective species; the land was her world, the water was his.

During a particularly regular period of visits, when the dolphin swam closer to the shoreline than he had done before, she began to wonder what it would be like to hug him.

Would he simply swim away, possibly never to return? Or would he attack, punishing her for having overstepped the mark?
She had to find out.

So, one day, she left her usual path along the rim of foam and sea weed on the wet sand, and stepped into the water, towards the dolphin.

A Piece Of News

When the train came to a halt, she opened her eyes again, half-smiled in the direction of the man opposite her and, with a visible effort, got up from the seat. Where her movements had been easy before, she now gave the impression of an old woman, or someone just very weary and exhausted.
She paused, looking up at the luggage compartment overhead, and then swiftly took the small red trolley suitcase down.
Shuffling behind the other passengers, she made her way to the steps leading off the train and climbed out.

D. and E. were there, not far from where she got off, and waved at her cheerfully.
Seeing their smiles, and how they took several welcoming steps towards her, made her heart lurch up into her throat, and she scolded herself for being such a crybaby.
Finally, they hugged and kissed, D. took her little suitcase (which clearly was not necessary - she always travelled lightly), E. linked arms with her and they walked out of the station and to the carpark.

During the short drive to their house, E. talked almost constantly. She always had so many things to say, updates about mutual friends, their jobs and families; what changes had happened in their town since her last visit; the plans for dinner tonight and would she like to take a nice hot bath before or afterwards?
She smiled and made mono-syllably comments were they were requested, not really listening to E., inwardly apologizing to her friend for her lack of attention, but at the same time enjoying the normality, the down-to-earth humour and everyday-business-manner.
As was his habit, D. talked little, focusing on the traffic, nodding and smiling at E. whenever she asked her husband to confirm something she had just said.

Once at the house, she gratefully took E. up on her offer to take a long hot bath before dinner, said a heartfelt thankyou to D. for carrying her tiny suitcase up the stairs to the guest room which was to be hers for the next few days, and closed the door silently but firmly behind him.

Now she was on her own again, but this time more so than on the train.
She could relax, and before the tears she had felt so ready to flow had a chance to well up again, she unpacked her few belongings while running a bath.

E. had put her favourite coconut-scented bath essence there for her, and she used it generously before she undressed and got into the tub.
A small old-fashioned black-and-white TV set was perched on top of the wooden chest of drawers in the bathroom, and she switched it on to keep her mind from wandering back to the various lines of thought she had followed during the train ride.

It was news time, and after the main stories with their usual depressing mixture of the catastrohpic and the banal, the presenter handed over to a middle-aged reporter somewhere in Northamptonshire who urged anyone who knew anything concerning a 45-year-old woman, married, mother of two, to come forward. The woman had disappeared from her own home on New Year's Eve at around 11 pm, in spite of the cold weather (which she did not like) and having a bad back, and nobody had heard or seen her since.
The husband appeared in front of the camera, hardly holding back the tears, pleading for help.

She was still very much conscious of the hot, coconut-scented water surrounding her naked body, but at the same time she felt suddenly more awake than she had all day.

This wife and mother-of-two, she was sure, had taken a decision. The decision she herself had so far lacked the courage to take. Silently, she congratulated the woman who had probably made her New Year's resolution come true. Of course it was heart-breaking to see the suffering husband, let alone the children (who were, in a rare act of decency from the media, not dragged in front of the camera).
But who knew what the situation at home had really been? Who ever knew what was going on behind closed doors?

The woman must have had very good reasons to leave, and it was most likely not "just like that", as her husband said into the microphone held up for him by the reporter.
She was certain that this woman had not taken the decision lightly, and that it caused her pain as well, not just relief.

Briefly she wondered whether she would ever be a piece of news.

Then the report was over, weather was on next, and she let herself sink deeper in the hot water until she felt the warmth spreading through her and the tension in the muscles on her back and shoulders eased.

Thoughts On A Train Ride

3 hours 28 minutes.
That would be the time she was going to have totally to herself, the time the train was scheduled to take from T. to N.
Plenty of time to think, with no-one to interrupt but for the brief moment her ticket would be checked and perhaps someone with a trolley would pass, offering snacks and coffee.
And think she had to.
About the situation and about what she intended to do about it.

She knew it was not going to be easy, whichever direction she was going to take in the future.
A realistic assessment showed only two possible options: Stay or leave.
To stay was eventually going to become unbearable. Actually, it already was unbearable now.
To leave would take a lot of strength and courage, both of which she was not sure she possessed in a big enough measure.
Also, leaving would make her feel terribly guilty and ashamed, and most likely so for a long time.
It would mean to publicly admit failure for the second time in her life.
Whether "the public" was interested or not, was not the point.
But guilty and ashamed she already felt very often anyway, so that was not going to be much news in the emotional department, either.

The self-deceipt she had given up months ago.
Now it was time to stop deceiving others.
Today, she was going to start by telling those she was to meet in N. the truth, about herself and about the situation.
Although she had no idea of what was going to be the outcome of her revelations, she was determined now.

Looking at her watch, she found that there was only little more than half an hour left before the train was due to reach N.
She took her handbag and went to the toilet. Her reflection in the mirror showed an unsmiling face with skin that looked almost grey with exhaustion from lack of sleep and too many worrying thoughts. Briefly, she wondered whether E. and D. would notice how bad things really were from just looking at her, when they would meet her at the train station.

She shrugged at herself, then, as an afterthought, stuck out her tongue at the image of the exhausted face that suddenly showed a hint of the girl she once was, cheeky and fun-loving.
"Maybe we can make you come back," she muttered, closing the toilet door again.

Slowly, she went back to her seat. Some passengers were already getting their things together, forcing her to wait until they had lifted their luggage out of the rack above their heads.
For the last remaining twenty minutes, she leant back against the headrest, eyes closed.

The man in the seat opposite had to look twice over the rim of his magazine, but then he was quite sure: it was a tear that was winding its way down from the corner of her left eye to the delicate line of her jaw.

A Picture Of A Boy

She walked home from work, determined to get the last bits of anger and frustration that had been building up over the weekend out of her system.
Exercise, even if it was just an hour's walk in the surprisingly mild October sun, always proved to be helpful.
It did not do anything about the situation, of course, but it made coping with it easier.
When she reached the place where two paths crossed, one leading up to the small foot bridge across the railway and the other one leading into town, she saw that someone was sat on the chunk of yellow rock that had been put on the patch of grass to stop cars from parking there.

Countless times she had passed this rock, but as far as she could remember, nobody had ever sat on it, although it was actually a pretty place for a rest, with an old apple tree spreading its crooked branches over it and one of the former duke's stables converted into modern living quarters visible behind the tree.
Slightly curious as to who was sitting there, she slowed down without really stopping.
First, she saw the dog.
It was a medium-sized dog with shaggy fur of almost the same colour as the rock, and it sat on top of the flattest bit, facing the direction she was coming from. Its posture was attentive but relaxed at the same time, and it did not turn its head or even twitch an ear when she came closer.

Then she saw the boy.
For someone like her, who did not have children, it was difficult to guess the boy's age, but he couldn't have been much older than maybe ten.
He sat on the sloping bit of the rock, his back turned towards her and towards the dog, who had clearly taken this position to guard over his human and protect him.
The boy was wearing ordinary clothes, a beige pair of corduroy trousers and a red knitted jumper.
He had sandy brown hair and a clear face, pretty in the way many children are, but not remarkable.
What she found remarkable though was that he was sat there like a man much older than him would sit, bent forward, one hand on his knee, the other hand at his ear.
Yes, she could see it now, he was talking into a mobile phone.

Nothing remarkable about a kid using a mobile phone, now, is there?
And yet, something about the manner of the boy struck her as unusual.
He spoke in a serious and quiet tone; not like a kid who plays at being Police Man and assumes what he thinks must be the serious, even pompous, tone of an officer.
But he spoke like an adult. Like someone who has serious things to deal with, and whose daily worries are not "what's for homework" or "shall we watch The Simpsons later".

Long past the pair on the rock now, she could not stop thinking about them.
She didn't know whether she should be sad for the boy who was so un-childlike in his manner or have respect for him.
Her own childhood had, in retrospect, never been weighed down by adult problems like money, work or health issues.
All that came much later, and sometimes - like during the weekend that now lay behind her and was never to be repeated, just like her childhood could never be repeated - with such force she found it hard to struggle against.

The picture of the boy and the dog on their rock stuck with her.
She would conjure them up in her mind, and silently wonder what the conversation on the phone had been about.
Had she been an artist, she would have tried to turn her mind's picture into a tangible one.
But not being an artist, all she could do was think.

Again and again.

Lost & Found

She had been living on the street for as long as she could remember, being part of a more or less regular community of others, homeless like her.
Over time, she had become quite good at various methods about how to come by food, and she knew all the places where one could hide when the weather was wet and cold or when someone was after her.
In their loosely knit community, couples were never a permanent thing, and friendships were often ended by one of them moving to a different place or meeting a premature death due to the hardships of street life.
Just like the others, she had switched partners and friends several times, so when she ended up pregnant, she had no idea (nor did she care to find out) who the father of her unborn baby was.
With the added weight of her big belly to her otherwise slim body and the fatigue that came not only from being pregnant, but also from hardly ever having enough to eat, it was no surprise that one day she was picked up by the authorities and put into a home for the likes of her.

Lost one way of life, found another.

Here, for the first time in her life, she had regular meals and slept comfortably. The surroundings were clean, and although most of the others here kept pretty much to themselves (because no-one thought they were going to stay here for long), she got along fairly well with them, and also with the people who gave them their meals and generally made sure they were lacking of nothing.
It was quite obvious from the start that she was pregnant, so she was given all the medical attention her condition commanded.
As far as she was concerned, things could have stayed that way for a little longer, but then her twins were born.

Lost one way of life, found another.

Being a mother was not difficult here, where she did not need to fight or steal for food and shelter. She enjoyed having her twins with her all the time, and was given some extra space so that she could take care of her babies without having to worry about anyone coming too close for comfort.
Looking at her twins made her proud and happy, and she did not once waste a thought for who possibly was their father - they both looked like her, and hers they were.
They became stronger and healthy and looked at the world with (in her opinion) very intelligent and curious eyes, and she shuddered when she thought about the life they would have probably had if she had given birth while still being homeless.

One evening, she was given another medical examination. Someone came up with a syringe. "Vaccination, nothing to worry about," she was told, just before she fell asleep.
When she woke up in a small room where she had never been before, she felt terrible.
Her abdomen hurt, and the twins were not there.
She had a headache and it took a while until she could open her eyes properly.
Now she could feel and see stitches across her belly.
What had they done to her? Where were her babies?
She cried for help, and it seemed ages until someone finally heard her and came in to look after her.
She demanded to know what was going on.
"Your babies have been adopted by a good family, they are far better off now," she was told.
And the stitches, the headache, the pain?
"You won't have any more trouble with babies, we've seen to that," they said.

Lost one life, found another.

At first, she thought she was going to go insane with the combined pain of her twins taken away from her and the aftermaths of the operation that had been forced upon her.
To top it all off, she lost a lot of her hair; no wonder with the hormonal changes her body had undergone so rapidly in the past weeks.

So, when she was transferred from the small single room back to where she had been when she had first arrived at the home, some of the others hardly recognized her.
At first, she was not interested in seeing anyone, although there were people coming to the home almost daily, looking at those of the group who were ready to be adopted.
Maybe her life on the street had made her more pragmatic than others; after a while, she resigned herself to the situation and gave up all hope of ever seeing her twins again. She even came to believe that it probably really was for the best that they had been adopted by a family. People she imagined wealthy, with a big house and nice garden for her children to play in.

One day, a couple came to the home.
She was being as nice and charming as she could, and in the end it was decided that she could go with them.

Lost one life, found another.

The couple were friendly and polite, giving her time and space to herself, something she had not had for a long time.
During the first weeks, she learnt what it is like to live permanently in a normal house, with furniture that belongs to you, a TV, and your own toilet.
Her hair grew back and she soon looked better than she ever had in her life.
If this was what her children had now, she could be happy, too.

So she curled up on her bed, purring loudly.

My Friend

My friend and I go back a long, long way.
As far as my memory reaches, back into early childhood where things tend to get a bit blurred and only single objects, sounds, sights or scents stand out clearly against the backdrop of the first few years, we've always been friends.

While we grew up, naturally the pattern of our relationship underwent changes; some of them subtle, some less so, but our friendship never suffered.

With my friend, I have been able to open many doors to the inner realm of imagination and delight.
On the very rare occasion where the delight turns into fear, I never blame him, and those events never leave a scar on our friendship.
My friend puts me at ease when I am troubled, restores my energy when I am exhausted and offers a welcome refuge from the outside world when I feel I can not face it.

Some years ago, a change of circumstances, of work place, of where I live.

True friendship does not suffer from such changes; it may shift and be altered, but does not break or peter out.
So, of course, my friend and I remained as close as before.
Or so I thought.

Until I found myself spending less time with him.
The hours we spent together became more irregular, often interrupted.
Various factors that neither of us can control prevent us from being as close as we want to.
I miss him when he is not around.
My longing for him and the comfort he offers is intense, and when we do manage to be together, my appreciation for him is greater than before, when I sometimes took him for granted.

Tonight, I hope to be with him again, with all the self-abandonment of the past.
My friend!
Hopefully, he will never forsake me.
I, for sure, will always love him.

His name is Sleep.