Articles by admin

It’s a metropolis in my head.

Ideas whiz round, like inner city cars; thoughts about home and work, about the world and people and life and death and choices and love and how to pay the next bill and will the water keep running.

The ideas build up, like urban sprawl.

But then feelings flood my heart. A tsunami of memories and emotions wash away my carefully laid thoughts.

To drain the waters, I write them down.

Out in the world they can be more than an idea.

Out there they can be a smile, a tear, maybe even truth.

A crimson bird perches on a low branch. It’s feathers shimmer like flames dancing in a fireplace.

Stretching her wings, wider than a man is tall, the bird blazes with fire and the tree, on which she perches, bursts into golden flames.

Despite the heat of the gilded fire, you offer your hand to the magnificent bird.

Furling her wings and flames, she steps onto your wrist.

Her weight is nothing, but her strength is burning and like her claws gripping your arm, her fire rips into the shackles around your heart.

Then, just like the weight, she is gone.

At the line between day and night, the river pauses. Still, like glass and silver blue, it reflects a fairy tale.

The waters soften the yellow lights to gold, illuminating old stone buildings, which drop down into the watery valley, like giant steps.

At the foundations a church, with its upside-down spire pierces the dark waters below.  A silver mist swirls round the pinnacle, like a flock of fairies glittering in the liquid sky. And in the blackest depths there are pinpricks of light, twinkling below it all.

Time passes over the line and the world in the water blurs.

A wooden arrow, with yellow fletching, slants into the short grass; incongruous, like a single spike on a hedgehog.

A woman smiles.

This morning she was greeted by cool Spring air, scented with newly cut grass, and the affectionate insults of comrades. Two months away. She’d missed it all.

A whistle called her to the line. Her aim was straight, but her shots fell short.

“Every arrow away.”

Shrugging off her loss, she enjoyed the walk, the banter and her mentor’s advice.

“When shooting uphill, aim higher.”

She aimed higher and on the last end scored one point.

She smiled.

Flowers the colour of sunshine blossom on the end of long green stems. The many silky petals, curve inwards, like hands cupped together, holding a secret.

Bunched and sold the yellow tulips are bought and placed in a vase. The vase sits in the ground, at the foot of a brick monument.

A gift given.

Sitting among the shades is peaceful but on returning to the world never seems real. Is anything?

One ray of sunshine is given back. A way to remember.  

Carry the single flower, twice given. Carry it home, to where things still grow. To the living.

Apologies are noted, by the secretary.

Last meetings minutes are raised and agreed.

The Treasurer regales his audience with a tale from 1952.

Everyone’s waiting for item three: Should the club open membership to vegetable growers?

But it’s always been a society of anthophiles. To allow veggies in would change everything.  But it would bring in new members and many vegetables produce flowers. It’ll change the club’s focus. It’ll refocus the club.

The discussion circles, like a whirl pool.

The secretary stops typing.

Bernard falls asleep.

The Chair waits until the waters run dry.

But the winds still blow unseen.

Slip on your character shoes.

Not your normal ones. Character shoes pinch your toes, they click and clack on the wooden floor and the high heels make you stand straighter.

Your character shoes allow you to dance, because they were made to move even if you weren’t.

They come with a dress, make-up and different hair.  They’re your disguise.

Shining at the camera, they help you make people believe in your character.

Theirs are the only soles you show the audience.

But when rehearsals are finished, the show’s over and you pull off your character shoes, you still remember everything.

The rain splatters on the glass, like static on a radio. Feeling cool air from an open window snake across the room, I curse and snuggle into bed.

What was that dream about? It’ll come back to me.

The baby wakes with a burp and starts babbling. 

Holding my breath, I wonder how long peace will last.

When the screaming starts, I don’t think.

Kicking off the duvet, I roll out of bed and get on with my today: Toilet. Dress. Breakfast. Teeth. Shoes. Bags. School. Walk. Drive. Shop. Lunch. Nap. Play. School. Tea. Tidy. Bath. Bed.

That’s my today.