Walking along on the beach last Sunday I spotted amongst the myriad of names scraped out across the expanse this sweet heart-warming message. So I bid you all a ‘Happy Sunday’ be it on the beach, in the woods, at home, at work. Wherever. May peace and joy rest in your souls. Warmest wishes to you all.
“If you will practice being fictional for a while, you will understand that fictional character are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats.’
Richard Bach
As we slowly slide into Autumn with the first frost of the new season stealing upon us last night I awakened to the sweet crisp chill air.
This brought to mind a poet whose work I relished as young; snuggled into bed I would read his words aloud, enraptured by their beauty, their cadence; his verse so rich and full in sound and meaning.
Below is a poem by John Keats that captures this season so well. Take a minute or two to read aloud, revelling in his exquisite eloquent Romantic poetry.
Ode To Autumn
1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
I am pleased to present the final part of Biding Her Time, my first winning short story which was published in Writing Magazine last year. Thank you for all your kind and positive words about Part One of the story posted yesterday. Again, enjoy and I look forward to your comments.
BIDING HER TIME – Part Two
“Sir, he’s the brightest of us all, well, nearly, apart from Queenie of course.”
Sympathetic eyes scanned in her direction then back to the front.
“Sir, he is going to university. To be a doctor. He always said so.”
“Well, that was true. Life has changed suddenly for him and as the eldest he is starting work on his uncle’s boat tomorrow. You will all understand, I know,” replied the teacher, staring into space, to the space usually occupied by Thomas.
Without warning Queenie stood up. The chair screeched against the floor and as silently as she arrived that morning, she left, heading out into the warm sunshine. A warmth that failed to reach the chill in her heart. She did understand. His sorrow, at the loss of his father and his dream. Queenie shook with the realisation of her own loss of Thomas. Their future. Thomas and his lively exuberant presence and his kindness. All gone.
She saw him later that day, on top of the highest outcrop of rocks on the island. Look Out Point they’d all called it, playing pirates, fighting off the invaders. Thomas stood still but she could see the battle within him.There was a new firmness in his stance and a grim determination set on his face. With a start he shook himself out of his reverie and finally spotted Queenie. He nodded briefly, his eyes black with grief, then turned for home.
The following months and years passed somberly for Queenie. Her joyful singing became the hushed hum of insects, her skipping metamorphosed into a considered mature step. She walked out with a couple of boys, respectable boys, in her father’s opinion. “Not like that Thomas,” he would add. “He doesn’t go to church anymore. He even drinks, I hear,” he would comment in disgust.
Queenie retreated to her studies, but the competitive excitement had long since evaporated. The classroom shrank in around her and her legs became numb, squashed under the small desk cubicle.
“You can’t let him go so easily, Queenie,” Betty reiterated. Betty, her friend at nursing school and who, since learning of her love for Thomas, had made it her personal mission to unite the two.
“You must fight for him. We’ll sort something out,” she said with conviction.
“My father. His disapproval…” said Queenie.
“You and Thomas will win that with time. You’ll see.”
Queenie was becoming colder by the minute. For over an hour the North Sea wind had whipped around her ankles, trying to raise her long marine blue skirt. Her new high heel boots caught unnervingly on the rough cobblestones of the quay and she tiptoed precariously between the minefield of trawls, which were strewn chaotically alongside.
Seeking shelter by a red fisherman’s hut, its paint peeling, she pulled her new tailored jacket around her.
“Ten more minutes,” Queenie muttered under her breath. She had already waited for nearly two hours and the bunch of wild flowers she had picked fondly that morning had started to wilt. She gave them a quick shake as if hoping to revive them then laughed at her own foolishness.
Had something happened to Thomas’s trawler? Why were they the last?
A sudden gust of wind lifted her new hat and its delicate blue feather fluttered in the breeze. She heard the soft ping of hat pins hitting the stones and scanning around she located them. Securing the hat again, she failed to notice the wooden vessel approaching the harbour. It lay low in the water, laden with herring, as the captain skilfully steered between the harbour walls.
All onboard gawped at the astonishing sight of the stylishly clad woman on the quay, standing incongruously amongst the lobster pots and wooden boxes. Shielding her eyes, Queenie looked up quickly and scoured the deck for Thomas. She could not find him. Thomas had no such difficulty and called out to her but his shout of “Queenie!” was lost amidst the raucous cheers from the crew.
Minutes later, Thomas was able to climb down onshore and quickly he dashed after the now retreating figure of Queenie.
“Queenie?” he whispered reverentially.
“Queenie!” This time he shouted louder. She turned and waved, tossing the flowers to the side.
God, he’d missed her. That smile.
Rushing up to her, he stopped breathlessly and stared.
“Queenie. You are so beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
She laughed. “Of course, so have you.”
“What are you doing down here? What a coincidence. A wonderful one, mind,” said Thomas in awe.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Again that smile
“Would you like to meet for coffee later?” asked Thomas boldly. “Once I’ve changed out of all this,” he added as he gestured to his bright orange oilskin clothes.
“I’d like to very much. Thank you,” said Queenie.
At that moment Thomas realised this woman was destined to be his wife. She just didn’t know it yet.
The End
© Annika Perry
During the past nine months of blogging I have had many kind requests for me to feature more of my writing. Today I am very pleased to post my first winning story, which was printed in Writing Magazine last year. As it is quite long, I have chosen to split this into two parts with the concluding part appearing tomorrow. Enjoy and I look forward to your comments.
BIDING HER TIME
Aged seven Queenie fell in love for the first time. The only time. From the moment she saw Thomas, she knew that here was her future husband. He just didn’t know it yet.
It was the first day of school and Queenie spotted Thomas at the front. Straight backed, tall, skinny, he sat next to the teacher’s desk. His blond hair was cut short military-style. The worn out trousers were a hand-me-down and the navy blue fisherman jumper had been repaired at the elbows. Nervously he fingered the black slate, then the chalk, before rubbing his dusty fingers across his trousers, leaving a white smiling streak grinning for the rest of the day.
Carefully Queenie edged past the other desks but felt a slight tug on her new skirt; it had caught on a wood splitter from one of the desks and sighing, she gently released the skirt and realised she could easily mend it later at home.
Tentatively she opened the lid of her desk, then, as she twisted to listen to her friend, it slammed shut. The classroom fell silent and all eleven pairs of eyes were on her. Even his. Thomas’s. She smiled sweetly, shaking her head, the long pigtails waving apologetically to the teacher, the red bows catching the sunlight.
“Well, Queenie,” said the teacher. “Thank you for that, but please in the future leave it to me to settle the class. To work…”
The rest of the day passed in a blur as Queenie hugged her secret to herself and there it remained for the weeks, months and years ahead.
The infamous tales of Thomas and Queenie quickly spread across the small fishing island as the academic pupils rivalled for first place in every subject. Their nine fellow school friends awaited each test result with anticipation, as first one week Thomas excelled in maths, the following week Queenie produced a stunning essay.
One day as the sunlight streamed in through the windows, Thomas’s arm flew up in answer to the teacher’s latest maths question.
“Yes, Thomas. Please answer. Let’s see your ability to predict the future,” said the teacher with a quizzical smile. “Or shall I finish the question first? Eagerness is all well and good, but do be patient.”
Shamefaced Thomas remained silent for the rest of the day and he waited for Queenie to outshine him. She didn’t however, and stayed mute herself, feeling for him and his embarrassment.
Through the years the pair struck up a lively banter, but it was just that, banter. Yet Queenie knew. She felt her love flourish as Thomas grew into a young man; strong and broad now, regularly working on the boats, helping to bait the longlines at five in the morning before school.
With frost on his overcoat and hat he scrambled late into class and was allowed a minute to put the coat by the fire and to thaw his numb hands. He added his coarse grey woollen mittens to the rows already hanging on the wooden railings. Water dripped from them all and formed small pools below. A warm fug penetrated the classroom and by lunchtime the now only slightly damp mittens were retrieved, hats donned and coats buttoned up as they headed out again.
“Queenie! Wait!” called Thomas one day at home time. They were thirteen, she older by a month and therefore the boss – or so they joked.
“Queenie!”
She stopped, as did her heart for a second. The sun hung low in the sky, the sea mist coasting up the cliffs and across the playground, lapping at their feet.
“Here. Borrow my gloves. I saw yours still sopping wet from lunchtime. Mine are dry.” Gratefully she accepted and as she lent to pick up her books, Thomas, with his long arms, reached over and took them.
“Let me. I’ll walk you home.”
Anxiously he talked about the fishing, the latest herring prices and his uncle’s new trawler. Queenie smiled, her long brown hair tucked under her fur hat, the brown coat sweeping the ground. She could bide her time. Already a head taller than her, Queenie glanced up at Thomas, his blond hair darkening to a soft longer brown, a cap perched on his head. Yes, I can wait, she thought.
A few months later Queenie quietly let herself into the classroom, her eyes red and downcast. She raised her head only once, to look at Thomas’s desk, now unoccupied.
Her friends approached cautiously, as if trying to rescue an injured and frightened bird.
“We’re so sorry to hear about Thomas’s father,” uttered one friend.
“They say it was quick,” another tried to reassure. “Heart attack, wasn’t it?”
“How is Thomas? When is he coming back?”
Queenie just shook her head, unable to answer, her summer coat clasped tightly around her.
“Class, please settle.” Even the teacher was subdued. “We are all so sorry to hear about the loss in Thomas’s family. As some of you may know, he will not be returning to school…”
“What?!” The uproar was controlled but loud. Shocked chatter reverberated around the room.
End of part one…To read the concluding part, please click here.
© Annika Perry
Whilst reading My Sister’s Sister by Tracy Buchanan I was taken with her wondrous descriptions of the submerged forests her characters visit and not knowing anything about them I wanted to learn more. Join me as I travel (virtually of course, it’s free!) to seven of the submerged forests around the globe.
The forests are created either as a result of deliberate flooding by man whilst building dams or caused by natural catastrophes, such as earthquakes resulting in landslides. More rarely there are the submerged forests that appear and then disappear according to the seasons. I have written about all three variations in this post.
GREEN LAKE, STYRIA, AUSTRIA
This ethereal submerged forest is a natural phenomena formed every Spring as snow melts from the surrounding mountains. The name comes from the emerald-green of the water which raises by 10 m and floods the forest. Beneath in the crystal clear cold waters divers flock to witness the mysterious underwater trees, park benches, footbridges and footpaths. The park itself begins to be restored in July as the waters recede.
LAKE KAINDY, KAZAKHSTAN
This ghostly haunting submerged forest contains huge spruce trees which still retain their pines in the cold water. The imposing trunks rise like supernatural apparitions out of the water, as if still grasping for life.
This 400 m long lake was created following an earthquake in 1911 when a landslide formed a natural dam which filled with rainwater in the valley. Again because of the excellent visibility this lake has become highly popular with divers and unlike Green Lake there are no seasonal restrictions.
LAKE VOLTA, GHANA
This lake is the opposite of the two previous ones which showed so much life. Here huge trunks of dead hardwood trees stick straight out of the water in an eerie atmosphere of decay and destruction.
It was formed when the Akosombo Dam was built in the 1960s creating the world’s largest reservoir. Altogether 3,000 square miles was flooded. Following the building of the dam hundreds of people have been killed in collisions with the tree stumps in the water as the lake is a busy waterway for fishermen and travellers.
Recently it has become part of a massive commercial operation as underwater logging has begun and it is estimated that the total value of the tropical hardwood recovered can be in excess of $ 3 million.
DOGGERLAND, NORFOLK
Closer to home there is the submerged ancient forest off the coast of Norfolk. The age of the forest is estimated to be over 10,000 years old and it had been part of the Doggerland region which at one time allowed hunter-gatherers to travel across the land mass to Germany.
The lost forest was only uncovered following the storm of December 2013 when tens of thousands of tons of sand and gravel from the buried forest shifted under the power of the waves. Although in more obscured sea conditions this is still a significant find.
It is believed that the oak forest was knocked flat by glaciers and the compressed ginormous solid lumps of wood are visible. Divers are not only treated to the visual delights of the re-emergence of this ancient forest but also to the array of sea-life, such as star-fish and crabs, that have made a home for themselves in the knotholes of the trees.
LAKE PERIYAR, KERALA, INDIA
Enclosed within the Periyar National Park this lake was created in 1895 upon the building of the Mullaperiyar Dam. The alluring apocalyptic scene consists of lake punctuated with a graveyard of dead tree stumps situated in the midst of the stunning beauty of hills. The park itself boasts a large variety birds and mammals as well as being a famous tiger and elephant reserve.
LAKE BEZID, ROMANIA
Situated in Transylvania this haunting (and perhaps haunted?) lake was formed during the building the of the dam which resulted in the flooding of an entire village. The villagers were displaced in 1977 to make way for the dam.
Eerily the former Roman Catholic Church tower dominates the centre of the lake. The dichotomy of the normal in such an abnormal situation lends the area an aura of otherworldliness. The church itself was visible until its recent collapse. Dead tree stumps are dotted around the lake.
LAKE CADDO, TEXAS-LOUISIANA BORDER, USA
It was a delight to read about Lake Caddo on the Texas-Louisiana border. It is the world’s largest cypress forest and is home to living trees that are growing in their semi-submerged state. The sense of magic and mystic is palpable from the photos alone.
The lake is named after the Native Americans – Caddons or Caddo – who lived on the land until expelled during the 19th Century. Local legend tells of an earthquake in 1812 leading to the formation of the lake. Besides being a place of great natural beauty it is also renowned for the hundreds of sightings of Bigfoot in the area!
I hope you have enjoyed the tour of only a few of the world’s submerged forests. Have you visited any of these? Or perhaps even dived in the lakes? It would be interesting to hear from you. All comments are very welcome.
How often don’t we take it for granted – this reading and writing. Let’s spare a thought today on International Literacy Day for the one fifth of the world’s population who are unable to enjoy and reap the rewards of what is now recognised as an inalienable human right – literacy.
Whilst in Roman era only 1% of the population was literate this has gradually increased over time in the western world and beyond to 99%, particularly following the Industrial Revolution. However, many areas in the world, such as Burkina Faso, South Sudan and Afghanistan, suffer from literacy rates of just above 20%. Of the one fifth illiterate people in the world, two-thirds are women, further disenfranchising and disempowering them from an active involvement in the community.
The International Literacy Day was established in 1965 by UNESCO to highlight the shocking illiteracy in the world as well as supporting and creating multifold organisations to improve literacy. They see a direct link with illiteracy and poverty and ill-health and recognise the relationship between improved literacy and economic growth and progress. Therefore the theme of International Literacy Day 2015 is Literacy and Sustainable Societies.
It is increasingly recognised that in today’s 21st Century literacy means much more than the basics of working with words and numbers. Communication is a central factor of literacy, not only through reading and writing, but also through the ability to listen and speak. Early on it is important to develop critical and visual literacy.
Of course technology now plays a huge role in society and individuals need to be computer literate, able to research information and then learn how to effectively use this. As many teachers will no doubt admit, their students now often know more than the teachers regarding modern technology and the teaching emphasis in this area has shifted to a form of partnership in learning.
Furthermore, computers, tablets and mobile phones are themselves seen as offering ‘fresh opportunities for literacy for all’. *
This is not a hopeless cause and it has been proved that with determination and concerted effort literacy rates can dramatically increase over just twenty years. Hopefully the the hundreds of activities and events across the globe today can move more people towards improved literacy.
Personally I cannot imagine a world where I could not read or write – a lifeline of joy, education, entertainment, knowledge. Let’s hope that many more can soon drink from this fount of enlightenment.
* UNESCO Director-General
We all know books are special but an Argentinian Children’s Publisher have truly put the magic into one of their books.
In an attempt to teach children the origins of books – trees – they have created a hand-stitched children’s book into which Jacaranda seeds are carefully sewn. Once the book is read, it is buried and within seven to fourteen years the beautiful purpleblue blooms of the Jacaranda tree will flourish.
‘Mi Papa estuvo en al selva’ (‘My Daddy was in the jungle’) is hand made on acid-free paper, uses ecological ink and is finished with silk. The story itself follows a father’s adventures in the South American jungle and is aimed for the 8-12 age group, although it can obviously be read to younger children.
Pequenos, the publishers based in Buenos Aries, believe that ‘trees and children can grow together’ and with this book they have successfully achieved the world’s first truly recyclable book whilst teaching children about ecological responsibility.
The book caused a sensation when launched earlier this year, gaining not only national but also international notoriety. Some bookshelves promoted the books by half-planting them in soil and allowing the seeds to germinate – a spectacular and thought-provoking sight and visualising the novel concept of not only do books come from trees but trees come from books.
It will be interesting to see if their idea of ‘Tree, Book, Tree’ will be picked up by other publishers and grow across the globe. How can it lose? Teaching children the love of reading and ecology. Alas the stunning sub-tropical Jacaranda seeds will not flourish in colder climes and adjustments must be made accordingly. Ahh…
Please do take a look at their promotion video which also shows the book production.
http://www.fcb.com/our-work/tree-book-tree
‘Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’
Confucius
Like subterranean explorers we travelled for miles along the network of tunnels approaching Oslo. This was quite unlike any city approach I had experienced.
The occasional car swished past on the cavernous carriageway of Bjørvika Tunnel and soon we made our exit from the urban roads. Within minutes we arrived on Bygdøy, a small rural island which boosts an array of tantalising museums. Among them is the Kon-Tiki Museum. Thor Heyerdahl’s book made a huge impression on me as young and one day I must return for this pilgrimage. For now our destination was The Viking Ship Museum which was easy to find with the aid of the long-suffering SatNav struggling on with the Norwegian pronunciation.
On seeing the Oseberg Ship I initially gasped in awe and immediately felt a humbling stirring in my soul. Over a thousand years old and our fore-fathers had not only created a vast sea-worthy craft but had done so with great sense of beauty and elegance. This was no clumsily constructed vessel, rather the wonder of craftsmanship shone from every angle, the soft planed oak boards with the carved keel, the perfect round-headed iron fastenings, then looking up to the bow I spotted the magnificently carved snake head spiral.
The ship, the largest intact Viking ship in the world, was built around 820 AD and could be either sailed or rowed with 30 oarsmen. Fourteen years later The Oseberg Ship was used as a burial ship for two women, one in her 70s the other in her 50s.
They were placed in a specially made burial chamber which resembled a small log cabin and with them were placed various items to help them in the after-life, including kitchenware, sledges, clothes, as well as horses and dogs. The remains of a peacock was one of the more exotic and unusual animals discovered. There would have been jewellery and weapons but these were looted within a hundred years of burial.
The artistic wonder continued as we wandered further into the museum. To be so aesthetically delighted was totally unexpected. We looked with awe at the beautifully carved sledges, a wagon, animal-head posts as well as the paraphernalia of the every day. The perfectly formed spades would not be amiss in a local B&Q; I could just imagine the price tag dangling on the top.
My wonder at these explorers of the past shifted to admiration of the early 20th Century archeologists whose care and dedication strove to rescue and persevere the finds which had been buried in the blue clay. Seeing the collapsed nature of the buried boats – oh yes, I forgot to mention the shock and amazement of discovering two further complete Viking Ships at the museum; The Gokstad Ship and The Tune Ship, tucked into opposing sides of the large cross-roads shaped museum.
Buried boats and artefacts were discovered tumbled to the side like giant wooden dominoes. All askew. All topsy-turvy. Looking so fragile in the photographs from the era, now the power and force resonated from the ships, silencing the large crowd mingling around us.
Our experience at the museum was tinged with sadness and poignancy as we learned my son’s generation might be to last to view the artefacts on display. The seemingly perfect objects were preserved with alum and they are slowly corroding from the inside out whilst scientists are working hard to find a solution to the chemical disintegration.
Replete in spirit and mind we left in mutual silence, our musings loud in our own heads, our hearts full of raw emotions from our millennium journey in the previous hours. It was time to leave this island of tranquility and head to our next destination – our hotel in Oslo city centre.
I shall go
I shall go
Where the trees talk
Where the grass and plants whisper
Where the skies are big
I shall go where the
Morning spider’s web is sheer
More precious than jewels
Where my hand on the tree
finds strength
Where the dew delights my feet
Where the air cleanse my lungs
Where the birdsong is
full of joy and purity
Where I meet my friend
Also rejoicing
Where our greetings
become a whisper as not
to disturb the sanctity.
Here we rejoice
Here we gather strength and joy
© miriam ivarson
This poem perfectly encapsulates my next few weeks, as I head off to Sweden with the family to the two houses in the forest.
Here immersion and union with nature and oneself is made possible and after the initial week or so stillness finally settles on my soul.
One afternoon I’ll stop and as if for the first time notice, really notice, the woodpecker high up in the tree as its drumming echoes across the land. 
One morning the breeze will be whipped into a frenzy and with contentment I’ll sit and watch the entertainment of the wild, erratic dance of the fir trees, the natural monoliths bending to improbable angles before slowly unfurling to stand gracefully upright again.
The midday sun heats the sand on the beach and like a kid I’ll scuttle to the water’s edge, immediately emitting a shocked squeal. As the crystal clear water ebbs at my feet, I’ll study the HD-quality shells and pebbles. Time at last to be awed by nature’s gifts.
One dark night a loud thud against the house wall will wake me and instead of fear I’ll smile to myself. Silly elk. Can’t they see the house? Then I’ll turn over and sleep soundly once more. 
One evening, sitting outside with a glass of wine in my hand, I’ll glance high up at the swirling birch tops and then spot the first fleck of autumn, the yellow tinged tips of a few leaves. A sigh of disappointment as summers end beckons.
I wish you all a peaceful, relaxing and healing summer.
‘The longest journey is the journey inward.’
Dag Hammersköld 
The Bike
Death came to his eyes that day. The advert had gone into the paper on Thursday and since then three calls, two visits and now a sale. He’d never expected this to happen. Why couldn’t he see this? Since he was three he’d lived on two wheels. Scooters, bikes, mountain bikes, motorbikes and trial bikes. The one selling today he’d only got last year.
For two long summers he’d worked at the hotel saving up; hospital corner after hospital corner on the beds, scraping his knuckles endlessly on the dark wood frame, loo after loo scrubbed, room after room vacuumed. He’d had a laugh with the other cleaners too – sorry, ‘maintenance crew’ or such nonsense. At lunchtimes they’d gathered in an unoccupied room watching sport on Sky, sometimes they’d sneak a few beers with them.
A couple of times he’d sneak Jessie from reception into a room. Together they’d tried out the double bed. Hmm…Jessie. She’d gone off to uni now. Of course, she’d wanted to do all that ‘long distance relationship’ rubbish. No way. Those never worked out. He’d told her so too. Okay, telling her by text might have been a mistake; his Mum had laughed nervously when he told her how he’d broken up with Jessie. His Dad just scowled audibly with disapproval. What the heck! It was his life.
They were here now. A couple with a Range Rover and a trailer bouncing behind. Adam, their son, scuttled out of the car and dashed up to the bike, his enthusiasm leaving a trail of happiness in his wake. So young. Just wait until life hits you, Adam. There he was, Adam, stroking, actually stroking the handlebars of his motorbike, now ducking down to look at the wheels, his head turning in exclamation to his parents, then an adoring glance at the engine. Joy radiated from his eyes.
Better get this over with, he thought, grabbing the keys from the pristine kitchen counter, reaching for the helmet on the stool. In the hall he looked into the mirror and thought ‘smile’. The corners of his mouth turned up into a grimace; that’ll do he reckoned as he headed out.
Hollow darkness filled his eyes as the car pulled away, his trial bike rattling in the trailer. An unfathomable emptiness cascaded over him as he glimpsed it for the last time.
He’d won three championships on that. Local ones but still. He’d been taught by the top rider in the country for a while. Then the falls! Remember the one on the moors, skidding down the muddy hillside, leg trapped beneath his bike, engine still running. Caked in mud, he’d got up and rejoined the race. Finished last but he’d laughed all the way to the line, celebrated all night with his mates, the most inglorious defeat and the photos of the day shared avidly on Twitter and Facebook.
Photos. He’d better take them off. Him and his bike. Just him now. As if he could ever have made it, been a real success. Stupid dreams. Those days of foolishness. Days of waste.
He took his mobile from his back pocket, scrolled through the photos. Here one on holiday with his friends all on their trial bikes. Who was that stranger staring at him, with a smile shining on his face? Who was that guy, laughing with his friends, his arm draped round his bike, chin resting on the seat? Click. Delete. Click. Delete. Whoever he was, he was gone. Click. Delete. The look of death in his eyes.
The End
© Annika Perry
Annika Perry 