Huffing and puffing the monster roars towards him, the dragon festooned in belching smoke clouds. The sunny day is soon obscured with the sooty darkness.
On the railway bridge the five-year-old boy ducks up and down, jumping with sheer excitement and terror. He holds fast to the iron-wrought railings seeking safety from the exposed platform below.
As the behemoth nears him a terrible howl explodes through the landscape and he’s shaken to the ground of the bridge, as ringing seems to pierce his eardrums.
Here it comes, he mutters. His vision soon clogs with dirt and soot, the sticky blackness settling on his hand-knitted tank-top, on his shorts; his legs and arms quickly covered with an impressive layer of dirt. Even the thought of his mother’s despair fails to halt the epiphany of the occasion.
With his eyes agog, his mouth forms a perfect O-shape then he takes a deep breath and holds it as the beast passes beneath him, beyond him.
Shouting in exultation he suddenly coughs, yet he never take his eyes away from the roaring monster. He swivels and absorbs the magic of this surreal world, far removed from his family and friends. Just the beast and him!
A loud screeching of brakes cuts through the drama, his comforting sense of isolation crashes down with reality as the train comes to a stop at the station ahead and people swarm out.
Alas, the extraordinary scene slowly dissipates yet he remains enveloped within the ethereal cocoon of his first zenith of train experiences.
Yes, it’s under warranty, only two weeks old but how can I make a claim when it simply disappeared?!
Early 2018 the internet was flooded with posts and tweets about the latest jetpacks for those with means and a wicked sense of adventure. The adverts promised a ride like never before with an added mysterious non-specific dimension. I just had to have one.
I’d tried out some jetpacks at an airfield or two. At £2,000 a time the rides were a bargain yet I longed to possess one of my own.
One spring afternoon I found myself in the library with my father. This was my favourite room, all Elizabethan dark wood panelling, four walls of books, all tucked safely away behind glass doors. On one shelf I spotted my beloved and tatty Jane Austen penguin books — a most wonderful writer and I adored her books so much. So very much that one Christmas my parents surprised me with a first edition set of all her sixteen books dating from the start of the eighteenth century. They got it at a very reasonable price, I was told, at just under £200,000.
My father was on the window seat and looked up at me. Even before I said a word he spoke.
‘No, Katy. I told you last night, no way. It is just too much.’
‘Pa,’ I said. He loved it when I called him this and I repeated. ‘Pa, it is just a bit more than my yearly allowance and rumours are you lost this amount just last month. Ma called it pocket change, I heard!’
Admittedly £300,000 was way past pocket change for me even!
There was a hiccup of silence. Yes!
I had him; the famous hiccup tell — he never could work out why he was always losing at the tables.
Father reached over to me, his glittering card stretched to my eager fingers.
‘Take this and just promise me to be careful, bubbles.’
There it was, the reason I would always get what I wanted — bubbles! The nickname made me smile and groan in equal measure. My delight of bubble baths was infamous. The renowned photos of me as a childsurrounded by bubbles galore by the world famous photographer Georgias Kerragiannis collectors plastered on our walls … and those of many art galleries. How did he manage to turn such a simple idea into a colourific gaudy prints that took the world by storm? Over and over he merely changed one tiny detail at a time and the buyers kept paying ever more.
Bubbles it was and this bubbles always knew the key to her father’s heart.
My delivery from Amazon arrived promptly the next day; a bemused driver was struck with the image of a jetpack man flying over the mountains on the box. Not subtle and I’d be leaving one of my scathing reviews tomorrow.
Up in my room, I rushed to remove the packaging, sending it flying across the bedroom. I grabbed the jetpack and stepped to my balcony. This couldn’t be difficult, I told myself, convinced the two controllers would be similar to my games. After all, I was an ace at Minecraft and Sims!
The instruction booklet lay tossed on my Egyptian cream sheets, unopened at the front cover of a red brash warning of ‘read before you operate — ignore at your peril’. Blah! Generation X are so molly-coddled! As if I couldn’t fly a simple jetpack.
I stood on the balustrade and pushed the red button, with a shout I stepped off. I was flying! There followed a big dip and near mid-air tumble but I made it just above the manicured lawn below, narrowly missing the ballroom.
Another burst of power and I was up and away, heading straight to the stables about half a mile away. Skimming over the lake, my feet took a quick paddle, the giant puffy mouths of the koi popping up to try and nibble my toes.
Looking at my right controller I noticed a dial by the thumb. I’d never seen this on my previous jetpack rides. I reached over with my left hand and turned it.
Suddenly the usual quiet of the landscape and stables turned to a maelstrom of people and horses, the shouts, chatter and neighing reaching crescendo levels, each trying to outdo the other above the din and clatter of the horse drawn-carriages on the cobblestones. The men wore the strangest costumes; tall black top hats and colourful ornate suits. What was the cause of this hub of activity? Had a film company unit hired it? It looked a set fit to film the next big Jane Austen blockbuster.
I was drifting down and right underneath me a man, my age, early 20s, looked up with a startled expression. He promptly turned white and fell backwards as I stepped into a neat landing next to him.
Suddenly he woke up and grabbed my arm.
‘What are you? A flying ghost?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘I’m Katy and you are …’
I left the pregnant pause, waiting for an answer as to his identity. His face was set in a priceless expression of utter bewilderment in the silence.
‘What is your name?’ I asked clearly.
This time he understood, stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching out.
‘Darcy at your service, ma’am!’
I laughed out loud. As if! Who had put on this elaborate joke for me? My very own Darcy, even if dressed in worker garb in rough white shirt, leather brown vest and dainty long black socks and shoes with a buckle. A small black hat flopped over his head. Of course, my Darcy would turn out to be a stable hand but his manners were to be applauded.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Katy. From whence do you hail?’ He stopped abruptly and realised his question. His hands waved vaguely in the direction of the air, which is in fact where I arrived from and in the process his hands, trying to reach for my arm, touched the dial instead.
That was two weeks ago and since then Darcy has enjoyed his sudden introduction to the end of the twenty-first century once he recovered from his many fainting fits. I had immediately grasped the ‘other’ dimension of the new jetpack — time travel!
How could I not fall for my own Darcy, the genuine article from 1797, so he proclaimed.
There was one small issue; Darcy longed to return home for just a while. He just wouldn’t listen, after all, he was home, here at Streaton Manor with me, just a couple of centuries out. Why was he making all this fuss?
Darcy hadn’t declared his love for me yet; that would come, I was sure. But I just couldn’t take the chance though, could I? These past days he was always on about my flying jacket, wanting to borrow it. How could I risk this most amazing change in my life? Pa already approved of Darcy although Ma muttered he was rather too dishy. For whom, I wondered?
I couldn’t risk it! I just couldn’t. This way was better for us both. A new start.
Standing from behind the jetpack, I reached over and touched the dial before stepping backwards just as the jetpack disappeared.
Whoosh! Not quite the sound rather more of a pfft but the mesmerising disappearance warranted a fanfare, I thought.
Gasping, I laughed and laughed! I’d done it! Sent the jetpack back in time and Darcy and I would be united forever. All I need was some cash for our new life— £300,000 should do it.
Now, where did I put the warranty for the notorious defective disappearing jetpack?
The winter sun streams through her mother’s living room windows, the diffused light shining golden upon the January daffodils, a reflection of inner warmth below the star, the Christmas beacon’s final moments for the year, a click and its glow vanishes but not its significance; the yearly ritual practiced with precision and love, actions set deep within her mother’s being, the red star box battered by the years, one side telling its story through the varying coloured sellotape, her children’s eager hands to set up the Christmas Star all those years, a squelch of a step upon the cardboard, the squeal of sadness, now here the brown packing tape and scissors lay prepared for this year’s enshrining, a clean cloth ready to swaddle the bulbs, a bag to encompass the precious ornament, a Christmas light that witnessed her grandson’s first word ‘tar’, a star of light and hope, there it goes, eased from its resting place on the hook, over the curtain railing, lowered with solemnity to the table, the Christmas cloth adorning the surface, the brightness regaling the room, advent candles sparkling in the vast wall mirror, the cascade of light brightening the task at hand, the satisfying pull of tape, the snap of scissors and a brown strip is affixed with consideration upon the red box, just so, there and here, what about another on this side, finally they sit back and admire the handicraft, pause to absorb the memories, the love across generations.
The format of the above piece was inspired by a flash fiction winning entry in Mslexia magazine which was written in its entirety of 250 words in one single sentence.
The above story celebrates some of the 80 books I read in 2023 and it’s fun to create a short narrative featuring a few of the titles. The book titles included are in the list below.
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
My Evil Mother by Margaret Atwood
House Rules by Jodi Picoult
At The Seaside Nobody Hears You Scream by Janet Gogerty
The Shadows We Breathe by Sarah Brentyn
A Winding Road by Miriam Hurdle
Happy Place by Emily Henry
The Sheltering by Khaya Ronkainen
Life is Like a Bowl of Cherries by Sally Cronin
The Lilac Notebook by Carol Notebook
The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods
The Lies We Told by Diana Chamberlain
A Terrible Kindness by Jo Browning Wroe
More than Coffee by Lauren Scott
The Vanishing of Margaret Small by Neil Alexander
In Someone Else’s Shoes by Jojo Moyes
Where The Story Starts by Imogen Clark
The Family Tree by Sairish Hussain
In The Five Years by Rebecca Serle
There is Light the Never Goes out by David M Barnett
This Beautiful Life by Katie Marsh
Below are images of all the books I’ve had the joy of reading last year! I just made it over the finishing line of the Goodreads Reading Challenge in 2023 and this year I am reducing my sights to 52 books!
Wishing you all a New Year blessed with good health, happiness and light – may 2024 be filled with creativity!
He didn’t know if he had a name. The very concept of names did not exist. Rather a memory fluttered at the edges of his emotions, the fuzziness of fun, a memory of rolling on the ground, play fighting with the other brown bear cubs. Overall an undefinable affection for others existed within this bear.
Then two years of isolation had wrapped itself around him like a winter duvet and through it Bruno (let you and I give him a name!) revelled in each and every season.
Through the colourful Spring, flowers erupted with dazzling displays and wildlife awoke around him. In Summer Bruno feasted on berries and odd morsels of elk meat however the midges became as bothersome as a thorn in his pad and the heat baked his fur. He sought shelter under the towers of spruce, a humming retreat of whispering shade and cooling plush moss. Autumn felt like the twilight of his life, a brightness remained yet the welcome bite of cold taunted his senses. Winter was Bruno’s favourite season, a time to strike out across the snow, sinking into it with a slightly satisfying scrunch, a caress.
Yet this second winter a loneliness gathered upon him just as the snow rested upon the fir tree branches, layer upon layer of inexplicable malaise.
The wolf, shall we say, Lobo, had been tracking Bruno for days. Rather ineptly Bruno felt, the wolf’s scent drifting across the landscape, his noisy traverse audible for all able to hear subsonically.
There he was across the frozen lake, a dusting of snow upon the icy tundra. Bruno stood still in the safety of the trees before stepping cautiously forward. Lobo mirrored Bruno’s stillness across the lake, and then he suddenly appeared from the camouflage of the dark trucks. Halfway across they were nearly nose to nose; Bruno and Lobo paused.
Bizarrely Lobo lowered his head into a subservient pose in front of the bear and meekly he inched forward to Bruno, his neck twisting away and with one final step rested his head upon Bruno’s neck and buried it into his thick brown pelt. Bruno reciprocated by bending his head forward and together the two wild beasts hugged in camaraderie.
The unique moment captured in a photo, their unity and togetherness preserved beyond the few seconds.
In a perfect synchronistic motion, they pulled away, as if on a general’s command to part ways, each stepping back a few steps, the longing yawning aching arch of friendship collapsing into the opening chasm. With a barely discernible nod between them, the bear and wolf returned to their lonely existence deep in the forest.
It’s that time of year again! To reflect on the previous twelve months and especially in terms of books!
One blogger in particular sums up her reading with a creative and unique approach; namely, a short story using some of the titles of the books she’s read the year before. (You can read her wonderful short story A Walk in the Wood, Book by Book on her blog ROUGHWIGHTING) Many thanks, Pam for inspiring me to write the story below which features the titles of my top twenty of the eighty books I read in 2022.
Enjoy and see how many titles you can spot! A full list is at the end of the story.
MISPLACED DREAMS
On the island of missing trees, the grief songs resonated in the absence of the light through the leaves. Songs which spun through the air in the secret language of lost dreams; when the world of sleep took on a life of its own across the four winds of the continents and set forth into the wilderness seeking their beloved recipients.
Abigail considered herself to be one of many perfectly ordinary people until the day she joined the puzzle women. Here she realised she was uniquely placed to help others, to reconcile dreams with their owners. Many claimed she lived in cloud cuckoo land however she knew in her heart she must try and in the process find the dreams waiting for her.
It was impossible to forget the day she met him. There were so many funny things about Norman Foreman after all; a congenial chap with a triangular beard bustling down his chest, the white a comfortable padding upon his generous stomach.
“Here’s the reading list, to get you started,” he’d uttered as they sat on the bench that first meeting. The ducks waddled by the river, ignoring the bread thrown to them.
Abigail had taken the list and in that second of handover it quadruped in size and she almost lost it in the sudden gust of wind.
“I’ll do it,” she nervously promised this unusual man.
On the way home the girl at the back of the bus tried to peer over her shoulder, gasping at the impossible dreams on one side of the page, the never-ending list of names on the other. She might very well gasp in wonder, Abigail thought. She too was flummoxed. How was it possible to unite the two?
“I wish you were here,” Abigail muttered to herself in the evenings, resting in the favourite well-worn armchair, the armrests sunk in the middle disconsolately. Any energy on their part to remain puffed up long since abandoned following the passing of its regular occupant, her dear William. It was nearly fourteen years ago but still she talked to him every day.
“I’m coming home,” she reassured him. “I’m coming home.”
“Never forget the forty rules of love, my darling,” he used to remind her every morning as Radio 3 and its classical music played softly. They’d written their own rules for fun on a napkin in the local Italian restaurant on their second date. The day had forever changed their lives, love bound them into infinity.
The writing was now faded, the white of the tissue a dour brown yet certain words were legible. She’d framed it as a 20th wedding anniversary present. William died ten months later.
The napkin had become an ideal ornament of remembrance at the place of their first outing as an engaged couple. The unique museum of ordinary people struck a chord with them both and they were touched by how everyday objects of deceased loved ones were displayed with tenderness and thoughtfulness. The everyday items in the museum ensuring that the extraordinary of every life lived on. Her precious napkin was now an exhibit of its own.
Oh, how she missed her treasured hubby, how she ached to see him again and every morning the way home gets longer and longer, she thought wistfully. The way home to seeing him again seemed insurmountable.
Grief, the absolute abyss of sorrow swallowed her up, her vocal chords unused to speaking, she’d become a dictionary of lost words. Until the day she discovered the mad, insane yet incredible project.
She’d help everyone she could to be reunited with their dreams and perhaps one of the others would find hers. In the process she would find herself again and the refrain of ‘the rest of me, the rest of me’ rang in her mind.
She’d wandered alone for so long!
Years after their first talk she met Norman again and he made her the new leader of the puzzle women. To the backdrop of the murmur of bees in Glenn Gardens Abigail finally declared her longing to Norman – to dream of William every night for the rest of her life. To be reunited with him for eternity in the living and dead.
“It is quite possible,” he’d confirmed as he chewed the remains of the beef sandwich, the crumbs trailing down the white-bearded mass.
One night months later she turned off the Mozart CD that she’d been listening to whilst working away. Mozart! One of William’s favourites and how they had dreamed of going to Vienna. It was not to be.
Abigail put the massive sheaf of papers aside and stepped away from her overflowing desk. The buzzing of the computer faded with one last sighing whine and became silent. The house was quiet. Perfectly still.
Sleep, once again, Abigail fell into her dreamless sleep, the darkness overwhelming until the silence was broken by music from the secret piano. Overwhelmed she listened in bliss before William stepped forth from the piano and bowed to her. At last, her wish had been granted and they were finally reunited!
As I mentioned every New Year is a treat for all book lovers here on WordPress as the community shares some of their best reads from the previous year. Here are just a few posts I have come across. Please let me know if you have written a post featuring your books of 2022 or have enjoyed some other ones!
She didn’t seem real, the first time I saw Fiona. The taxi pulled up at the double doors of the hall of residence and bulging black bin bags, followed by the thin plastic of Low’s supermarket bags tossed energetically out. At last, onto these tumbled a person. She landed like a fragile bird on top of the forgiving heap of belongings, her tartan cape gathered around. She untangled herself amidst squeals and laughter, her wispy blonde hair caught in the breeze across her eyes. The girl swished it aside, an action I came to associate with Fiona and her constant battle between the sea wind in St. Andrew’s and her long hair.
The taxi driver reluctantly stepped out of his car, muttering, obscenities no doubt. It was the same guy who had brought me here yesterday — one of 3,500 students descending on the town; the sleepy silence broken by the exuberant excited youths.
Years later I’d be on the other side, older, dreading the return to classes; an American gal settled in the deep dark depths of the north-east of Scotland — all for love, or so I convinced myself for many years.
Back then the sun gleamed through the windows, the corridors bustling with chatter, nervous giggles, hormones and alcohol; all to the backdrop of Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson and Runrig.
From below the angry voice of the taxi driver drifted up to me.
‘That’s six pounds? Do you hear me? Are you quite all there?’
The girl stood stock still, her gaze firmly upon the edifice of McIntosh Hall, or Chatham as I quickly learned the slang name for my new abode. Across four floors the impressive stone-built building curved in a long crescent around the garden to the front. This was the view from my shared room; from others, I learned their rooms overlooked the infamous West Sands. I coveted these rooms until seeing them soon after for myself. The beach view was but a corner snippet only visible by leaning out of the sash window at a sharp angle. A sash window that one day crashed down on its own accord just as I’d safely pulled in my head.
On this my only second day in St. Andrews, unaware of the dangers of the windows, I leant out and called down to the dazed girl.
‘I’ll be right down to help you. Don’t move!’
The latter words were superfluous I realised; Fiona remained motionless, oblivious to the wrath beside her, unaware of the stares and glares circling her.
Dashing down the wide wooden staircase I deftly dodged new arrivals hauling up suitcases, and grappling with backpacks. I soon arrived on the pavement outside.
‘Here’s your fare … thank you!’ I said to the driver handing him six crisp £1 Scottish notes, all the time eyeing intently the girl in front of me.
‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘Truly arrived!’ Her tranquil awe was infectious and in tones much quieter than my usual robust way of talking I replied cautiously to her.
‘You have indeed arrived! Welcome! What’s your name?’
‘Fiona.’
‘Fiona the Fey,’ I uttered unintentionally.
With a gasp, I tried to reach out, and grasp back my thoughtless remark. To no avail. Yet fey suited Fiona perfectly.
Not tall myself, she barely reached my shoulders, her face and hands beyond pale, a translucent white. Upon her wrist dangled an old silver watch, her limbs skeletal and resembling the build of a young child. Her face looked gaunt, the cheeks sucked into themselves but it was the eyes that held my stare. Vivid hazel-green orbs shimmered, as striking as a baby’s large eyes on their smaller head. Eyes that rarely seemed to blink, eyes that would unsettle many around her.
With a start Fiona roused herself and flung her body towards me, enveloping me in a hug.
‘Thank you! Thank you for this wondrous welcome! We will be the best of friends,’ she declared with force.
I hope you enjoyed the above which I hope to develop into a longer piece of fiction told with an alternating dual narrative perspective of Gail and Fiona. Happy Writing!
The heron is in full flight alongside the canalboat, just like the one we saw on our first trip. Then it was so sunny and warm, now just drizzle and chilly. God, I wish you here.
Love you, Sheila xx
Dear Bob,
More downs today. Beth and Gary bickered non-stop through all three locks; remember those just before the Moorhen pub. You and I laughed our way through them, our playful giggles no doubt both a balm and irritation to fellow travellers. Much better than the rotten language and atmosphere permeating the deck and tow-path today.
Your one and only, Sheila xx
Hi Bob!
At last the sun and as promised I took out the painting set you bought for me. Thank you again! I think I’ve captured your likeness and spirit very well, although the colours smudged a smidgen. No, neither wine nor river water alas, rather tears. My eyes and my life still blurred, awash and adrift.
With all my love, Sheila xx
Bob,
You won’t believe it! I sold a sketch! I can just imagine your guffaw followed by your proud bear hug. The picture? A fair representation of the humpback bridge near Beasley lock. Oh, the tunnels we go through and this time no songs to echo inside them; our dear kind friends would be mortified if I broke out into ‘Three Little Maids’! That’s just between you and I!
Loving you always, Sheila xx
Dearest Bob, history buff,
You would have loved to wander around the ‘castle’ again as pictured on the front. Or as I see them, a heap of ruins, just stones. Last time I felt an ethereal presence. Do you remember? Now it all seems drab … dead. Oh dear, I fear I’m becoming a morose travelling companion. Three is such an awkward number.
Missing you, Sheila xx
Bob,
Laughter and smiles today! Ten locks successfully negotiated, without a sour word. Then pub lunch at the Keeper’s Inn! We all raised a glass for your birthday. Bother, I didn’t mean to cry then. Hate that you’re not here.
Lovingly yours, Sheila xx
My dear soulmate, husband, best friend, my Bob!
Home tomorrow! A bittersweet return. As the lone oak tree on the postcard, so am I — truly alone. Two months of crushing grief, loneliness, of missing you, our life together. Your spirit has been with me every day of the trip, it always will be. Though I’ll always treasure our time together, our memories, I must forge ahead with my own life.
RIP dearest Bob, our love will last into eternity. Sheila xx
The above piece was inspired by Writing Magazine’s exercise in which to write a story in seven postcards. All seven postcards to be from to the same person to the same recipient.
It was a grisly sight first thing that morning. The garrotted dove lay lifeless on the lawn, a storm of feathers upon the dull green grass. Bright red blood seeped out of the neck wound, the purity of white blemished by death.
Near to its kill, the raptor looked on with an expression of huffed up pride and indignation. Not one to usually brave suburban gardens, this enclosed haven with its regular visitors of peace proved too irresistible for the falcon. What could go wrong?
Earlier, replete after eating fallen sunflower seeds, the doves ambled leisurely, without care, along their promenade route, bidding each other a quiet good morrow. Then the raptor struck. It was almost too easy. Yet, he had not taken into account the witness. Loud urgent slams on the glass followed. These he nonchalantly ignored. The raptor loomed over the stricken dove and gripped its corpse tightly in its talons.
Crash! A door was violently flung open. An angry shout. Then a pneumatic drill of curses. The raptor would never relent. Until a sudden flurry of towels as the human windmill careered towards him.
Anna hadn’t noticed the time slipping away as she worked in the library. Engrossed in her study of anatomy, books covered every surface of the desk, some lying on top of each other at an angle, others closed with scraps of paper marking various sections.
Suddenly
the alarm rang, and a flurry of activity stirred Anna from her studies.
‘Ten
minutes until closing everyone. Ten minutes. Please bring any books to the desk
if you need to check them out.’ The librarian headed to another room repeating
her message.
Where
had the three hours gone? Quickly Anna slammed the books shut and dashed around
the library returning a couple to the shelves. The remaining three she lifted
into the crook of her arm and after putting her papers and ink pen into her
satchel she headed for the desk.
‘There
you are, dear. Better fasten up your coat, it’s a blustery night out there,’
said the librarian, recognising the diligent student from the past few weeks.
‘You’ll take the tram back, won’t you? Don’t get caught out in the rain.’
Anna nodded briefly, whispered a quiet ‘thank you’ before grabbing her books. She found it hard to talk to strangers and the warmth and kindness of the librarian only made her miss home more. There she never had a moment to herself apart from her brief solitary outings on the rocks, here loneliness engulfed her.
‘Goodbye. Have a good weekend,’ called the librarian.
‘You
too,’ replied Anna with clarity and determination. ‘I wish you a lovely weekend
too.’ There, she could do it. Everything would be fine.
The librarian had not been exaggerating about the weather as outside the wind whipped around Anna, sweeping her coat around her legs and rain spiked at her face. Undecided she stopped at the corner. To the left was the tram stop but she barely had any money and perhaps the girls might invite her out to a cafe with them tomorrow afternoon. She didn’t want to back out through lack of funds. To her right lay the shortcut to the school; only a kilometre, all along the streets. With a determined spin Anna turned and marched off down the road.
The
lights were further apart than she recalled and as the temperature dropped mist
formed on the ground and drifted around her ankles as she walked. Her feet
scuffed the pavement and with a stumble she corrected herself, the books precariously
balanced in her arms.
‘Not long now,’ Anna said to herself as she started to hum one of her mother’s lullabies. The fog became denser, the lights from the lamps dissipating until only distant balls of yellow hung ominously in the air. Where was everyone? Shouldn’t they all be going out to the cafes and bars? Of course, she realised, that was the opposite direction. Here there were only a few houses in the distance and to the left a park; she’d forgotten about that. She tried to peer through the murk into the park, to the lake she knew lay in the middle but saw nothing. Just blackness.
Anna walked faster, her shoes trilling along on the pavement, her breathing faster. Behind her she heard some steps. Loud and heavy. No, this was silly, she was imagining it. The steps sounded closer now and with a shock she started to run, the books flying in her wake, her satchel dropped to the ground.
Suddenly an arm violently grabbed her around the waist and started to pull her towards the park. Anna screamed and instinctively reached out to the black iron wrought railings at the park entrance. She must never let go.
The
man had both arms around her waist, tugging, squeezing hard as he tried to drag
her from the railings. Anna screamed and screamed. She couldn’t stop. Her shrieks pierced the air. His
hands were over one of hers, trying to prise her fingers from their grip. She
held on – just. All the time screeching for help. A feral animalistic wordless
cry of sheer terror.
His fingers clawed at her fingertips and with another scream she finally let go. Her other hand remained clutched to the railing. The man released his hold for a fraction, Anna hoped for a second, he would leave her. In vain as she saw his arm rise and he threw a sharp punch in her stomach. Silence collapsed around them. Anna fell forward, her head slumping onto her knees, the man’s arms quickly around her and lifting her up. Like a rag doll she hung for a moment in his grasp. Limp. Lost.
‘What’s
going on here? Let her go!’ The voice came from across the street and more
shouts joined this first one. Footsteps echoed in the silence of the fog. ‘Let
her go! Let her GO!’ On their command Anna was dropped to the ground like
discarded rubbish and with a thud she hit the ground, landing on her side and
rolling into a ball.
‘Are
you alright?’ Tightly curled up, she lay unmoving.
‘Is
she hurt?’
‘Where
did he go?’
‘I’ll
go and call the police, you stay with her.’
The
disembodied voices hung around her. Anna felt a lady sit on the ground next to
her, talking, saying something; the words remote and distant. Indecipherable. A
jacket was bunched as a pillow beneath her head.
‘Mamma, Mamma,’ moaned Anna
inaudibly.
’She’s trying to speak. I can’t make it out. Can anyone give me their coats? Any blankets, anything. She’s shaking terribly. God, look, this is bad, I can’t stop her shaking.’
‘I’ve
found her bag. And some books were scattered just a bit away from here.’
‘What’s your name? Where do you live? Listen, we need to call someone.’
The
voice was becoming more emphatic, increasingly desperate.
‘I
recognise the uniform. It’s Hellsson School – I’ll give them a call. I’ll be
back in a moment.’
Hellsson School? Why did that sound familiar, wondered Anna. She was sure she’d heard of it before. Who were all these strangers and why wasn’t she lying in bed? With that thought she closed her eyes and found welcome oblivion.
Annika Perry 