Beauty (by an under achiever.)



(disclaimer – this photo is not me! lol!)

Why did I watch “The Ugly Truth” six times? It’s certainly not the coarse humor. I suspect I identify with the heroine. Since ever I can remember, those make over teams that haunt the malls made a bee line for me. Why? The answer is obvious. “This can make us look good!” It’s odd as an artist that I have zero affinity to fashion, hair and make-up, (I’m hopelessly inept).

In contrast my daughters tend to look like they stepped out of fashion magazines, stunning! I dare not compare just utilize their skills now and then – I do tend to “scrub up well” I just don’t seem to have that certain knack some women do.

It’s all relative of course. I get my share of compliments. I’m just really not sure on a scale of 1-10 how I score looks wise. A good friend (and admirer) said, “Just let us guys tell you.” Well I’m happy with that. Guys are so much easier to please!

But seriously girls, you know it’s true, few women dress for guys, most dress to look good in the ratings of other women (of course in doing so they also attract a fair number of guys.) Girls strut their stuff, sizing up the opposition, while others of us choose to take a non-competitive approach sitting on the side-lines. I suspect it’s a matter of confidence (every noticed how the girl with less natural assets can stand out above her more “gifted” counterparts?)

Then again maybe I’m just lazy or concerned with “more important matters”? I cringe thinking just how much time my daughters can spend in front of a mirror to obtain that perfect look. Generally speaking I’d rather spend it living, but just sometimes it would be nice to think I looked great!

I wonder if I’m “one of a kind” or do others think like me?

Love’s Completion.



Tears of a different sort welling up. This month began with a wedding, with definable rows in chapel pews and glorious reception tables. There were tears there, rejoicing in their love.
These tears are more difficult to define. They come in a circle gathered together, inclusive, the object of the tears unseen. Again I watch a life’s story as photos flash upon a screen, a tall wiry frame, large eyes and over sized smile brimming with fun, engaging, inviting, accepting of all that ventured across his path.
His bride sits alone now, remembering. I hear confided whispers of her excitement on their wedding day. She couldn’t wait to marry this tall, gangly man with the big smile. You couldn’t call him good looking. He certainly wasn’t rich or famous, but he knew how to love without conditions. Though he knew our faults his love was so big it overshadowed them.
I heard of his children, no carers here had overseen his last fleeting moments, too precious to be shared with a nurse. His family had rotated 24/7, his children assisting in those most intimate acts he could no longer perform, a wayward son cradling him in his arms as he had once been cradled.
As I listened, taking in the moist eyes of others, I thought about life’s goals. This was how I wanted it to be at my memorial. His goal had been to love and he had achieved it.
The tears were not of sadness, though he would surely be missed. Like the fresh patter of rain washing away the dust and dirt of life, they cleansed our hearts and renewed our vision. I envied his wife to have known the love of such a man every day of her life.


What Do I Believe?



I believe in love in spite of the hate I see in graphic media footage, I believe in light in spite of the darkness that pervades the arts and society as a whole, and yes, I believe in God.
There was a time I didn’t. I felt the existence of a God of love amidst this mess of violence and corruption was a fantasy invented by man’s need for reassurance, for a superman who would make things right. (How telling the preponderance of super heroes nowadays).
I’d tried most things, education, travel, Buddhism (and other religious teachings), the quest for love, and a great many less acceptable things in my desperation, when God pretty much hit me over the head in an intense personal encounter that changed my life and perspectives forever. I realized God didn’t need my belief in him to be real. He was there whether I believed or not, a fact not a fantasy and He was at work in my life.
I began to really “live the dream” not the “American dream” which destroys from within, but the fairy tale you might say. I never fit into churches (or society as a whole) but I devoured His Words in the Bible. I’ve always been a rebel and He used that very aspect of my personality and miracles began to tumble about my life as I took Jesus at His word “cashing in” the promises he left us with.
Some folks think Christianity is boring or confining. Nothing could be farther from the truth (though I can see some traditions without the spirit of God might make it that way).
“You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free” it says. The closest analogy I could make is like launching yourself off a mountain top and knowing (not hoping) God will catch you and you’ll fly. I no longer worried about how I’d support myself, if it was safe, how I’d do something. I guess it was like Lois Lane the first time she flew with superman and I flew and flew and flew. I loved it! Life was total freedom and anything was possible.
Since then I’ve grown old. I look forward to death with anticipation and a little trepidation welcoming the destination but not the journey there. This one thing I know He’ll be there for me as he always has been, He never let me fall, not once., even if my strength should fail His wont.

Beyond the Veil .


The Doctor. (first of a series of apocalyptic short stories)

Waking in the silent emptiness of my room my eyes adjust to a shimmering form. I see water cascading down sunlit rocks. This time it is a woman that waits. I watch her bathing in the mottled light of the pool below the falls. I’m disturbed to see her limpid back and arms disfigured by an angry cross work of scars. She is still young, mid-thirties I’d guess.

They are pioneers. It is a glimpse of a time yet to come upon the earth. “They,” for a man has come to call her, his clothes rough and old, hair dark and unkempt, his face shaded with stubble. There is a dog. No, two dogs. He’s been hunting, rabbits hang over his shoulder and he holds a rifle…

Now I see a hut, rough made of logs and timber. In some places leaves and branches still stick out, like it was raised in a hurry by someone not too adept at the job.

He watches as she emerges from the water his passion for her warring with his anger for those scars that mar her beauty. He turns his head as she reaches for her clothes. She seems more at ease with the scars like she no longer harbors anger. I sense they have not been together long. I want to see their story.


Like hitting a rewind button, scenes flash before my eyes.


He was gone when they blew up the house. It was not till later when he was returning that the story began…




A man jumped in front of the car frantically waving. Dan thumped on the brakes. What on earth??

“You can’t go back!” Robert yelled, his face contorting against the half open window. “They are all dead. You have to flee.”

“What are you talking about?” Dan stuttered, “Who’s dead?” Dan had seen plenty of death, but the next words tore his world to shreds.

“Mary and the kids! They’re dead! You can’t help them. I saw the bodies! You’ve got to go!” Tears of desperation were running down his friends face. Dan couldn’t move. He sat stunned, his mouth agape.

Taking matters into his own hands Rob reached in pushing him aside to take control of the vehicle. Dan was in shock; he could do nothing. Robert hastily stuck the car into reverse edging into a nearby driveway to turn.

Dan slowly came to his senses.

“But why? I’m a doctor, why would they kill my family.”

“It was you they were after.” His friend said grimly. “Don’t give them the pleasure of taking you, head for the hills!”

“But my family? I must go back maybe…?” Dan reached to grab the wheel.

“You cannot help them now!” Rob hissed as he pushed him away trying to keep control of the vehicle. “They are dead I tell you! I saw it! I saw their bodies! You must believe me! If you go back now it will all be for nothing!” Robert was almost screaming in desperation.

Dan recoiled, defeated by the intensity of his friend’s eyes. Robert spoke the truth. His mind numbed once more as, tears streaming down his cheeks, he gazed out of the window at the blackness of passing streets, his heart frozen in disbelief.

“Try and pull yourself together man,” Robert said, his own voice raspy. “There’s nothing you could have done. You can grieve later. Right now you need to get out of here. I shouldn’t be here. I have a family of my own to worry about!” The last statement got through to Dan. Robert was putting his own life and family on the line to warn him. His inert body churned into motion.

“Thanks Rob!” he said putting his hand on his friends arm, his voice oddly cool. “You can pull in here. I can take over now. You need to get back before curfew. You need to get back … to your family…” his voice broke as fresh tears streamed.

Robert looked up gratefully, guiding the car into the curb. It was late and the roads deserted, hopefully no one had seen him…

“You’ll come?” The Dan asked grabbing Robert’s sleeve. “You won’t stay here!”

“No,” his friend said quietly, “but I can’t go without Alice and the kids.”

“Of course not.”

“Where will you head?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think too much just now.”

“If you’ll take my advice you’ll head south, up into the hills,” Robert whispered as he bundled out of the driver’s seat, “there’s more chance to hide there.”

Dan nodded in dazed agreement as his friend sped off into the blackness. There were no street lights just the gentle glow of candles from within the curtained windows. Reaching forward Dan turned off the headlights, better play it safe he reasoned. Edging along the road in a cloud of blackness he was thankful for the moonlight and the full tank of gas he always kept for the medical emergencies that had become part of his life of late. His calm exterior belied by the fire of rage within.


His mind, now cold and calculating, kicked in. He’d need supplies, bullets, (like most he carried a rifle in the boot) and enough gasoline to get him up in the mountains, then what? He made a mental list carefully checking off each item. He checked his wallet. He still had a wad of notes used in his black market dealings. No one would take them here but once he was out of the city he might find a place. His eyes flashed to his medical card.

“No, too risky!” He told himself it would be a complete give away. He cursed that he had not replenished his bag before leaving.


Finding a much neglected gas station happy to take the contraband bank notes he stocked up well. Having gotten clear of the major cities he abandoned the car, leaving the keys in the dash and a little gas in the tank in hopes someone would take advantage and drive it to some other location to hide his trail. The remaining can of gasoline together with his other supplies he hauled into the wilderness on his improvised medical trolley.

At the hospital there had been generators, to cope with the frequent power cuts but then most of his work had no longer been at the hospital. That was what had brought all this upon him. Why had he not just done as they said? Why did he have to go helping those not approved for medical aid? Why had he done it? He never thought they would go so far…

Resolutely he set his face to the slope above him. Day had long dawned and a drizzly rain began to fall as he edged his way up the foot path…



Years have passed, his skin is now tanned and weather-beaten, the soft surgeons hands grown calloused and hard, like his heart. He keeps to himself gleaning his needs from the surrounding woods and the occasional abandoned vehicle – others, not as lucky as him. He had gotten out early, knew already the places to hide. He had watched the exodus from the cities wash upon the lower slopes of the hills, watched the gunships come and mow them down… Some had escaped, running like rabbits for some bolt hole, but most were dead or rounded up in the camps. His sacrifice had been for nothing, the lives he’d once saved were now encased in wire and prison bars while the elite grew fat on ill-gotten gain. In his heart bitterness and hate have out grown their casement, their evil vines entrapping his mind and eyes till his soul is dead to the wild beauty that surrounds him.




It had been a good days hunting. His precious bullets had all but run out long ago like much else but there had been time to adapt, time to carve his bow and learn to use it with precision, time to acquire the art of trapping to find where the autumn berries grew best, where the salmon spawned, how nettles and doc could be harvested. His frame was lean but well-muscled, his sinews strong and subtle. He sought quietly through the undergrowth for his last trap.

His eye stayed, riveted. Tell-tale drops of blood told a story on the rugged tufts of grass, instantly alert his gaze swept the earth. It seemed some large beast had dragged its self along the forest path, but what? … too small for a bear, too large for a deer. Stealthy he followed the scarlet trail and scattered soil.

A body appeared, a scarlet heap of wretched humanity, the earth and fauna forming a small circle of blood drenched color amidst the green! They must have dragged themselves from the camp he realized. He had seen the cloud of flies that dwelt on the decomposing heap where the dead were stacked before being tossed into the pits that silently swallowed them. But this one had not been dead. This one had survived. Anger surged in his breast as he approached the macabre form. It was a woman.

His breath caught in surprise as he perceived a slight rise to her chest, a flutter of life. Quickly he bent down to check her pulse. She was alive! bloody, exhausted, but still alive! Glancing around he grabbed her up in his arms. He dared not go directly back but veered through the course of a nearby stream to mask his tracks. The torturous course of her journey was clear for any to read, if they bothered that was. They probably assumed her dead as she soon would have been had he not found her.

She was amazingly light, skin and bones for the most part, even so he was exhausted by the time he stopped. “Home” was little more than an arrangement of branches set against a log swung between two trees, a very simple affair easily dismantled when he moved on choosing not to settle in one place too long.

Her eyes flickered open for just a moment as he set her down, registering his face. Grabbing the pan of broth from his morning meal he tried to spoon a little between her lips, but she had succumbed once more to unconsciousness. Better so he thought bleakly coaxing a tiny flame to rekindle the fire and setting a pan of fresh water to boil. The wounds were fresh and caked in dirt and soil from her passage. It would be a miracle if they were not infected. He cursed his lack of medical supplies.

Sponging the worst of the debris from her wounds with an old cloth he kept looking at her face, miraculously unmarred. It had been a while since he saw a woman. “How could they? How could they he stormed! They are not men but beasts, not fit to live!” Anger raged within. He knew of the camp and what they did there.

His hard calloused hands took pains to be gentle. Her eyes opened again as her face contorted in pain.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I must clean your wounds or they’ll get infected. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for the pain…” his voice trailed off.

She inclined her head in acknowledgement then slipped back into oblivion.




Dan wrung his hands in anguish feeling helpless. The fever was mounting. He looked down at her weak, flushed face, all eyes, staring sightless at he knew not what. Her hands burned like fire at his touch. There was only one chance to save her. He bit at his knuckles. “Better not risk it,” he told himself. “Let her die, what is she to you anyway?” He turned away. Then cursing grabbed his rifle and the two rabbits hanging from the branch. Would they be enough? They’d have to be! Sliding down the hill in the gathering darkness he cursed his humanity. Why hadn’t he left her there? She’d die anyway. They’d all die sooner or later. What was the use? …


It took hours to reach the camp, they would be asleep by now, watching only those locked within in their long cabins and barred windows. He remembered when it was built. He thought it must be an army camp till they put up the barbed wire. He thought it a prison and worried less. Then he saw them come in their hundreds, women children, young and old, some barely able to stagger off the buses and trucks, others tied or chained together. It was far too many he reasoned; how could they be housed and fed? It became obvious as a northern wintery wind blew the foul answer on the breeze. It was not a prison camp but a death camp. Here far from prying eyes they slowly disappeared transformed into mounds, the new hills long overgrown with moss and wild flowers covering their gruesome secrets. Why she had been beaten and left for dead instead of their usual more effective methods he did not know, but he could guess – men were ever men and she had been beautiful. A tear trickled rebelliously down his cheek a tear forbidden many years since when his heart had been transformed to stone, when he had ceased to care or so he told himself.

The camp was in sight now. He’d been here before, knew where the pharmacy was, watched the doctors go in and out. They did not watch the perimeter. Who would ever want to enter such a place? He dug furtively at the earth below the fence. It was just wire here. He kept the rabbits close. He had seen dogs patrolling.

Gingerly he lowered himself under the wire, his breathing hard from tension. Like a shadow he bounded across the yard to the medical shed. The door was locked but the window opened easily. He slipped inside groping in the darkness. If only he had a torch. His hand hit something, matches. Yes of course they must have matches. He knew all about generators, doctors would always have a backup. Cautiously lighting a match shielded by his trembling hand he spotted the candle close by. Above it shone a glass cupboard. Quickly he perused it. He was tempted to take more, but it would be missed he told himself. One jar could be misplaced, they wouldn’t worry about one jar, but if he took more…

He glanced around the empty courtyard. All was clear. His eyes rested on the cabins beyond. In a sudden surge of compassion he wished he might free some within those chained buildings. He must not push his luck he reminded himself, enough he got the medicine.


As he dove back out of the window he heard a sniffing sound. Untying the rabbits he held them out in the darkness glimpsing an approaching shadow. A howl erupted as a second dog appeared. He tossed the rabbits and bolted for the hole. The dogs, diverted by the fresh meat, began to scuffle. A light went on in one of the huts. A door opened as Dan crawled breathless under the fence lying still and flat against the hole. He watched as a small circle of torchlight flickered over the bickering dogs. A laugh broke the silence.

“They got a rabbit, that’s all,” a voice boomed into the darkness. “Get back to bed.” The door closed, the light went out. Sweating with relief, the tiny bottle safe in his pocket, Dan recovered the hole and headed back.


It was almost morning when he staggered to her side. She was burning with fever. He quickly put two capsules into her mouth raising her up to sip some water. She spluttered and one of the capsules spilt its contents on the floor. He muttered a curse and took another.

“Slowly,” he told himself. Having accomplished his task he lay down to rest, there was no more he could do. Exhaustion swept over him like a blanket of forgetfulness. He slept long, so long, right through the day and into the night shattered from the stress of his intense journey. Stirring from his sleep he sensed a movement. A hand reached out brushing his beard as a weak voice whispered, “thank you.”

Dan was up in a moment lighting the lamp, a remnant of his medical days when the failing electricity would go off at the most inconvenient times. He lit it carefully, matches and oil were valuable; he never knew when opportunity would serve to get more. His task accomplished he looked down at his patient. The fever was down and a weak smile graced her lips. Quickly grasping the opportunity he poured a cup of water and placed another capsule on her tongue motioning her to swallow it. He gently raised her head a little so she could sip the water. He felt her hand grip his arm. Her eyes looked up in thankfulness though she could speak no more.

He lay awhile awake looking up between the woven branches and rough tarpaulin of his shelter. He must build something better, soon cold weather might come and rain for sure. She needed somewhere safe and dry if she was to recover; he would start tomorrow…




The scene shifts to sometime later. The shack is built (though the tarp. still serves as the only roof). He is helping her to walk outside. She smiles at him in appreciation. She can talk now and the cloths and bandages are off her wounds. The leaves are yellow and the wind cool. She sits on a rock to see the work. He drapes a blanket around her shoulders and hands her a mug of hot broth. Her eyes still hold shadows of black, signals of her brush with death but she is stronger, her emancipated frame now animated by a lively smile. She touches him affectionately but he does not respond, afraid to let love back into his life, afraid to feel.




I see him now alone in the woods, angry again. He roars out a great bellow of frustration as his axe crashes into a tree. His body has grown strong and muscular from his outdoor lifestyle, but within his heart still bleeds. Angrily he throws down the ax, he can bare it no longer…


She was up and about now cooking on the outside stone hearth, a blanket artfully tied about her against the cold. She looked up and smiled as she saw him coming from the woods.

As he drew closer she sensed it. Something was wrong. She’d seen that look before but never on Dan.

Gasping she set down the pot and turned to run – too late. Grabbing her by the arm he forced her inside, flinging her on the bed, his arms like steel vices pinning her down beneath him. She did not resist, she knew better, gritting her teeth, preparing her body for the coming assault.

“What had happened? Why? Why should he do this?” she screamed within, “He had been so kind and gentle to her.” But in her heart, she had always known, something lurked within him, some dark, hidden demon.

Lips forced their way over her mouth, hard, intrusive as he ripped at the blanket.  She knew not to fight; she’d learnt that long ago at the camp. Pulling back to look at her exposed breasts he encountered her eyes, shocked, hurt, fearful.

Anger melted away as, like a lanced balloon, he collapsed, his body imprisoning her. Enormous sobs broke forth forcing open the bowls of his heart. He raised his head, tears streaming.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “so sorry… I don’t know what made me do it. I fought so long against it. Now you will never forgive me.”

She leant forward.  “I understand,” she whispered, “I do.”

“How could you understand!” he yelled back, the anger rising again.

“They hurt you,” she said simply, “just like they hurt me, only your scars are on the inside.”

He looked down at her in astonishment.

“Let me heal you as you have healed me,” she whispered. He rested once more on her shoulder a torrent of unshed tears finding outlet.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she whispered, “We’ll make it together; we’ll heal each other.” Slowly, softly she began to kiss his face undoing his shirt and pulling it from his shoulders. “You’re a good man,” she whispered. “I know you are a good man, you’ve just been hurt real bad, like me, but I love you. I won’t let it devour you, I won’t!” He reached down to cradle her face and kiss her, this time soft and gentle. She sighed audibly.

“See,” she said, “Love is worth fighting for.”




The picture pans out again. I see years pass, the final destruction of the cities, the return of peace. They are still at the shack but now it has a roof and a lean to area for cooking. There’s a child, a young toddler with rosy cheeks and his mother’s smile. Their clothes are still basic, the furniture rough hewn, but the doctor’s face is different, he has caught the woman’s smile his scars are healed.








Return to my Ivory Tower.


Well it’s not actually ivory and it’s only two stories, but it is an idyllic place and I do have a “knight in shining armor” living next door, a “jack of all trades” with a heart of gold who routinely rescues folks (not only me). The lakes and trees are nearby for me to wander in and my quaint old English town is dressed in red and white flags (world cup fever strikes even here.)
The love birds have returned from their honeymoon and I’m free of watching over my grandkids. It was precious having the company of my other daughter for a while, here from China for the wedding, and my eight year old grandson is a great guy. We spent wonderful afternoons together enjoying the benefits of the love birds’ home, picnicking under the pavilion in the garden, listening to the birds, the sound of the little river, watching swan and duck visitations, but I’m aching to write. Words and ideas crowd my head so it’s hard to sleep and I’ve missed the simple tranquility of my “tower”.
It’s strange; I always dreaded the idea of living alone, having been part of a large extended family. A fellow friend and writer smiled and said I’d love it. He knew me better than I knew myself, or perhaps we are just alike, because I do love it! I love the time, the tranquility of my situation, time to think, to ponder, to write and to paint.

Pleasure’s Vigil


(Flash fiction on the theme of pleasure)

The ball is over. Chairs stand like silent sentinels, their tumbled silhouettes baring record of revels, each telling its story. The table’s rows, once neat and occupied, are now abandoned, askew, their late owners having vacated to other pleasures.

The ballroom chairs tell of wallflowers, sitting primly, fans aflutter. Masculine chairs turn in clusters where rowdy conversation once reigned. Drunken chairs, like their owners, lay in sprawled stupor.

But what is this? A peal of childish laughter breaks the silence, as a dog, bright eyed, ears flapping bounds across the room pursued by running feet, soft and fresh from sleep. As one day ends another begins. A white cloth, formerly adorning the counter becomes a tug of war, – sharp teeth versus chubby hands. A pitcher of wine that managed to survive the night’s foray falls victim, and, seized upon by eager fingers, gives forth its last drop to a reckless little mouth. Boy and dog scamper off leaving behind their own trail of muddy debris.

Then, with a yawn, the parlor maid arrives, broom and bucket in hand. No pleasure for her lies ahead, just dusting and cleaning from now unto bed.





rainbow light

(Flash fiction on the theme of “other worlds”)

Thomson reached out a roughened hand to touch the tiny pulsating lights scattered across the bridge. They quivered in response as if alive. The structure looked too flimsy to take his weight, should he cross? He felt strangely exhilarated by the scene before him. His  breathing quickened. Had he been right to come? Was this the time for this voyage of discovery? Perhaps he should have stayed with the others.  He took a step, the beams responding in vibration to the pressure of his feet. All nature was interacting with him like some drug induced trance. Another step; it held, not so much supporting him as enduing him with its own ethereal nature.  The light was dazzling obscuring the forms he glimpsed through luminous air.  Dare he go further? He could hear his colleges calling behind him like an echo in the stillness.

“Come back! Stay with us!” they yelled. But he gazed onward transfixed, as feet moved onward drawn by an unknown power, his body becoming ever more buoyant in the strange atmosphere. The voices became more urgent as he edged forward.

“Fight! For God’s sake fight!” they urged. He felt a sudden pain in his chest. For a moment he hesitated, then deliberately continued on, as his ears where captured by a strange and haunting melody. The pain subsided, the voices faded. The beings were coming closer now welcoming him. They were not unlike himself but infinitely more beautiful. Like the lights they pulsated with pure energy. He felt dirty, soiled, his uniform caked in dust and blood. They seemed not to care. One thrust an arm across his shoulder seeming somehow familiar. Had he been here before? They led him stumbling across the remainder of the bridge as voices were raised in a cacophony of welcome…

“He’s gone!” a lone voice echoed from behind. Thomson turned for a moment.

“It’s OK. They’ll all come later,” the familiar presence said.


The medic pulled away. Moving on to the next casualty he brushed his eyes on the blood splattered sleeve of his uniform.

“I’m sorry mate. We were too late, he’d lost too much blood.” He muttered to the soldier bent down at his friend’s side.

“Why did it have to be like this?” he questioned. “Why hadn’t he gotten here faster and where was the dammed ambulance he’d requested. If only he’d had the supplies! No use getting upset,” he told himself, “go on to the other guy.”

“Dam mines!” the soldier swore his eyes flooding.” He was a good chap, deserved better.”

Battles With Shyness.



I’ve always been shy. As a child I hid behind my mother’s skirts, turned every shade of red when spoken to (still do sometimes.) I’ve heard the term “painfully shy” – that says it all. It was certainly painful at school with its loud mouthed bullies.

At adolescence I learnt to overcome it, learnt not to care what people thought, defiantly going the opposite direction with my outlandish clothes and escapades. I decided “to hell with trying to be like my peers, I’d let lose my creative side and claim supremacy!” (There was of course a great degree of arrogance in this!)

Abandoning the perceived restrictions of my environment I learnt to aim high, miraculously gaining a fine arts degree in a low class neighborhood where kids seldom attained the modest GCSE level. I discovered strangely that my shyness didn’t extend to public speaking (I could act any role). Even in my private life I learnt to overcome my timidity though as Wolverine said, “it hurts like hell every time!”

Now in my later years when, pride diminished, I look back and ponder, I make a realization. What fueled my vision, my creativity, wasn’t it those very times alone taking in the wonders of creation, seeing things the others missed?

Hanging back from the confident, outgoing crowd I had time to look around, time to ponder, to notice those other paths leading off the highway to exciting unknown destinations. Looking back I am thankful for my “cross”, without it I would have missed so much. As “the crowd” descended to office, shop or factory I found a door to wonders beyond my dreams. The answer was not to become a member of the bustling throng but to appreciate my unique value just as I am. May we all enjoy being just who we are!


The Guest.



(Flash fiction on a theme of “shadow”)

My friend the shadow dwells with me. Like a comfortable blanket he shrouds my existence sucking the colour from the shades I glimpse beyond our window. Colours that blaze and glow in the life of others fizzle and die upon my bleak casement, shadow cloaks them.

It wasn’t always so. There was a time I lived amidst the colours, radiant and free, but now I live with shadow, he pales the hues that would hurt my eyes.

Alone with shadow I rest, afraid to raise the blinds upon the outer world, to look upon others in their bright resplendent hues. My clothes are soiled and torn with the wounds of life. That’s why I chose to live here with shadow, he comforts me.

There is a knock on my door. I tremble as it opens. Why it is not locked? I shade my eyes, but no light streams in, just a tiny glow, a candle held in trembling hand. Her clothes are torn like mine, her countenance somber, dim. From somewhere I remember her face. It was brilliant then, peach, rose and gleaming blue. Now it is grey like mine.

She holds the candle high. “I thought we might enjoy this together. It’s not too bright; it doesn’t hurt to look at. Don’t you think it beautiful?”

I trace a flicker of colour in her cheek, soft hues in her hair.

“Yes,” I breathe, “It is lovely.” We sit side by side enraptured by the tiny flame. I slip my arm around her shoulders. It feels good not to be alone.

One day when we are brave we will let the light in again and I’ll see the red curls I once played with and she’ll look deep in my brown eyes and I hope she’ll say “I love you.”


The Mountain.



Looking upward he adjusted the loaded backpack. The mountain rose majestic  before him its pristine slopes green in the early sun. Tilting his cap he set off.

By mid-day slopes and dappled woodlands lay behind, the path ahead was steeper, rockier. The occasional hikers had vanished along with his mobile signal.  A strange isolation seized him, fear nibbled. Was this wise? Should he wait, join a climbing party?

No, this was what he had wanted, alone, above the confusion. Rebelliously he consumed a sandwich and trudged on. He became increasingly conscious of his surroundings. The rocks were not barren, tiny plants grew. He was not alone for birds carolled in passing and rodents rustled from his path. This was their world always, but today he would partake.

Joyous ripples announced a stream, leaping towards the waiting valley, cool and sweet. He emptied his bottle replacing stale water. He felt a new spring in his step. On he walked, enclosing clouds bathing him in refreshing dew, longing to see the veiled view beneath. On till aching calves enforced rest, silence, eyes feasting in fog drenched vision.

Would he have the strength to get down? Soon he’d have no choice but sleep here, alone in the darkness. He rejected the voice not wanting to concede defeat.  He must gain the summit. Stubbornly he rose and lumbered onward, his mind relaying pictures – his body found, relatives weeping at the funeral. He pushed them all away striking up a song to bolster his confidence. He had no voice, but here it didn’t matter, there was no one to hear. He belted out words revelling in freedom, the stones echoing in strange harmony.

He was close now. Light had almost departed but that must be it, the summit. Something gleamed – traces of snow! How strange to sit there in a T shirt, his body heated by exertion. It wouldn’t last that’s why he’d brought the sleeping bag. He rolled it out and exhausted lay down. It was not black, stars glimmered and the moon shone serenely as he slumbered.

He awoke to sunshine and aching muscles. Dazed he gazed in astonishment at visons he’d missed behind veiling clouds. Vistas opened, perspectives changed in a moment. Life resumed its proper perception.  He knew he must return but as he ate the final sandwiches he knew nothing would be the same. The mountain had changed him.