Electricity

Electricity
Sparks sizzled blue.
“What’s happening?” her voice trembled in the sudden darkness.
“I don’t know”, the stranger replied curtly. The crush of earth and stone above her increased intensity; the walls, too close now, engulfed her mind with vibrations.
Fusty, flu ridden breath kissed her lips as it passed.
A cough broke the web of silence. She could hear frightened murmuring. Faces, made cadavers by flames which lit little else, leant close.
Children wailed and lights flickered. Hopes were born and died in parallel. She plunged deeper into the silk of nothing.
Fingers brushed too closely along her arm; her nipples felt suddenly hard and cold against her bra. Blood thrumming and ears filled with heartbeat, she turned, her adrenalin fuelled fist raised.
Simultaneously, the lights became shockingly alive, sharply illuminating a child’s outstretched hand. As the tube train buzzed into electric life, fear faded as her fist dropped.

Ullswater

Ullswater

The lake’s ferry boat slid easily up to the jetty at Glenridding, barely disturbing the rhythmic slap of water against wood as the crewman jumped to terra firma, a heavy rope looped over his shoulder.

I pulled my fleece closer as a gust of wind bit sharply against my back. The light changed again and the previously jewelled trees softened, forming an unremarkable dull streak against the lake edge. Sparkling water turned to darkness.

My eyes shifted to the wooden boat, now moored safely against the jetty. Cold, tired passengers hurried to the café, eager for the comfort of hot coffee and bacon sandwiches after a long day walking the steep hills.

For a moment I forgot why I was here; lost in memory. That day, there had been a swan cruising the shore line; aloof and alone amongst the tiny ducks. An arrogant sense of its own beauty had prevented the bird from begging for bread, preferring instead to coax tourists into presenting him personally with the tastiest morsels. We had laughed at the visitors who were ignorant of the swan’s regular game and were hushed by the toddler whose eyes widened in awe at the size and brilliance of the elegant creature.

You pointed out the memorial to Donald Campbell erected by his granddaughter and teased me with your imagined plan to beat his 1955 record of 215mph across the lake. I knew then you were probably serious.

I smiled to myself, but the sight of the grey stone with its plaque stole my laughter. The pain of a more recent memory ripped through my heart and I quickly looked away.

“Are you getting on board love? We’re about to cast off and there isn’t another boat until tomorrow” a cheery voice on deck interrupted my musing.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I was just…..” my voice dried.

“Looking at the view,” finished the man, “it’s beautiful. I’ve worked the boats here for twenty years and I never tire of it.”

I smiled at him in reply, picked up my rucksack and climbed the gangway. I passed the greying boatman my ticket and noted his seasoned leather complexion and layers of muted coloured jumpers; both were comfortable and reassuring. Walking briskly along the deck, adjusting my step to the gentle swaying of the boat, I descended the three short steps into the cabin and sat down at our favourite window seat.

Darkening mounds towered high above the lake edges, resembling mud pies dropped carelessly by a giant’s child a millennia ago. Now covered in a patchwork of chocolate brown and muted mossy greens; some were capped with plantations of trees, orderly as they tickled the sky.

The boat chugged steadily across the lake on its journey to Howtown and Pooley Bridge, the shoreline a rolling animation, revealing hidden beaches and tree kissed water. The warmer lower slopes were quilted by soft green grass, sprinkled with leafy trees and flowering shrubs. The grand homes of 19th century industrialists, now hotels, retained their rich, almost sanitised aloofness. Your rant about ‘the exploitation of the countryside by rich tourists’ had only been silenced by the whiskey fuelled hot chocolate in my flask.

That last time had been early March. Jack Frost was regularly sprinkling the countryside with lace overnight. On the boat it had been even colder, forcing us to sit inside as our ears burned with hot-aches. The hamlet Bennet Head and scattered farm cottages had beckoned with implied warmth and sanctuary.

The bare wintry view had been enchanting. The trees held their breath through the chill, reserving energy for the spring burst, a promise of the future. Maybe that’s what had inspired you to talk about weddings and my heart to skip a beat.

The boat turned and copses gave way to wrinkled dumpling folds of rich peat. Burnt orange gorse bushes clumped in small crowds as the slopes steepened, thinning as rocks became blue-purple near the summits.

The smell of moving water and freshly stirred air drew my attention to the spray, sparkling in the sun light, denying the chill. I stared across the stern as the steady wake of the boat created self repeating turbulence; the order amongst the chaos. Water sprites played as the waves broke; spitting spray into the air, tempting the sky bound spirits to a duel.

As the boat reached the centre of the lake, I stood decisively and climbed the steps leading to the breezy deck. You held my hand last time, making sure I didn’t stumble as the sway rocked us against each other. My memory of that day is warm and sunny although it had been cold; we’d wrapped up like children ready for snowball fights and you’d laughed at my fluffy hat. Strange, I clearly recall the warmth and strength of your hand that day, yet I can’t remember where we went after the boat trip.

On deck the steady thrum of the engines and the quiet chatter of an elderly couple seemed odd, almost out of place. As I willed them to go below deck, the white haired lady met my eyes for a moment. Her expression showed concern. Suddenly embarrassed by my comprehension, she looked away. Her watery blue eyes settled on her husband as he gently took her hand and pointed to the brood of ducks battling the wake.

The boat bucked as I escaped their completeness and I stumbled against the guard rail. I paused, steadying myself. Reaching into my rucksack I pulled out the thick, opaque plastic bag I’d collected four days ago and walked to the stern with the wind swirling freshly behind me. The bag’s weight had been a surprise; heavy, but without substance.

As the sun came out beams touched the spray and refracted blue flashes danced across my eyes. I tipped the bag and watched as the ash danced in the air, before descending to play with the water sprites below.

My task complete, I stood alone.

997 words

Race For Life

This year I am taking part in the Race for Life in Chesterfield in July. I am doing this in memory of my grandfather and Wayne; both of whom helped me to be the person i am today and whom i still miss.
Please help me raise money for this great cause. I believe clicking the link below will allow you to sponsor me online. Thanks.

Rwanda

As you fetched wood

Stretching,

Bending

Grasping for something you could never reach

The militia

Forced dominion over you

Later, as your blood

Flowed red to black through my fingers

I wept.

Yet the world turned its back

When I too,

Went to fetch wood

No Last Goodbye

When the pain has gone

Will your memory begin to fade

And become the bitter after taste

Of grief?

That last time, when,

You said you loved me

I replied,

I loved you too

And wondered afterwards

Why the emotion?

Denied my last goodbye

Because I didn’t hear you

Didn’t feel the gaps

Too busy with

Myself

To add perception

The circle’s not closed

No last words

No last goodbye

Love at arms length [iii]

Keeping love at arms length,

We danced

Our merry dance

Through the aisles of life

You fetched the coffee

I lingered, flirting with the chocolate

Drifting,

We finally met at the deli counter

‘Lemon or garlic chicken love?’ she said

That was all

Eyes meeting, we saw the future

‘Both’, we said in unison

Imbolc; afternoon by the Derwent

Legacy

“There’s even less than last month” sighed Eve to nobody as she added the last figure to the table on her laptop. She sat back on her ample paunches, orange peel cellulite showing through her tight cotton trousers, and surveyed the surrounding rain forest. Although life buzzed around her, she wished for signs of large mammals, unfortunately now believed to be extinct.
Packing away her laptop before the battery died, she cast an eye upwards through the canopy and noticed swirling rain clouds spreading fast across the perfect sky.
“Definitely time to go”, she announced to the large parrot disturbed by her busy packing. Its vibrant green and red feathers breathed with intense colour as they swished past and wafted dank air into her nostrils. She sneezed as jungle dust clogged her sinuses; then wiped her nose on her sleeve. After all, she thought, no-one could see her and tissues are just another form of pollution to suffocate the world with.
Eve had qualified first in her class in 1012 and been awarded a Distinction for her research on animal behaviour during climatic change. As the current world expert on the effects of climate change on earth’s fauna, there was a high demand for her expertise.
Musing on her previous assignment, she recalled the sawing cold of the Antarctic where she had observed penguins uncharacteristically attacking and killing their neighbours’ chicks in unguarded nests. At first, she had been horrified, then fascinated by the cannibalistic behaviour; wondering what actions she would take to protect her unborn children. She had concluded that constantly diminishing food and space was the cause; a situation not unusual in human society.
The chance to spend six months in a tropical rain forest had sounded like the Garden of Eden in comparison to snow blizzards and frost bitten fingers. Her experience had more than qualified her for the job and her application had been accepted with only the briefest of interviews.
However, with dust up her nose and sweat oozing from every pore Eve began to wonder if she’d made the right choice.
The journey back to camp was not an easy one; insects buzzed and bit exposed flesh with unusual zeal, enjoying the luxury of healthy red blood.
“Ouch; where did you guys appear from all of a sudden?”
Eve swatted three mosquitoes with one swoop of her nail bitten hand, their engorged bodies exploded and flecks of dark blood stained her already filthy T. Shirt.
“That’ll teach you!” Eve smeared blood and gore onto her shorts.
Resuming the struggle through the verdant undergrowth, her thoughts wandered to another jungle, almost ten years ago and to Paul, her tall and gorgeous companion. She had met Paul on her first assignment in India, shortly after qualifying. He had laughed at her conversations with herself, asking if she did it to reassure herself that at least one person was listening. They had tracked the last known tiger for two months, desperate for a glimpse of the magnificent creature and each other. Their love making was animal; frantic, desperate, yet deeply satisfying.
The relationship had not survived the grey Derbyshire clouds and English winter of constant rain. Parting as friends they maintained occasional contact, each responding to the others work. They not seen each other for several years and Eve decided to contact him on her return; maybe it wasn’t too late. Either way, she looked forward to discussing their work and watching his blue eyes dance as enthusiasm for his subject grew.
She became aware of the shadows which began to overtake and smother her own. One glance up was enough to see that the sky was full of determined birds racing south. Panic stricken souls lost in the mist screeched in fear. Larger birds attacked, dive bombing and swooping through the crowds of panic, like dolphins through shoals of corralled fish.
The air grew heavy with moisture and as the pressure dropped it became harder to breath. Her head began to pound with the exertion; stopping she took a deep drink from her water caddy. Although warm, the water soothed her dry throat and the dribbles washed beads of sweat away. Draining the flask, Eve looked up and frowned.
The sky was pigeon grey. A dense sheet of clouds, low enough now to partially obscure the upper canopy, filled the atmosphere with a threatening presence.
“Weird. The cloud shouldn’t be like this. The insects are going crazy and the birds are panicking.”
Curiosity was over ruled by common sense; turning quickly Eve hurried as fast as she dare towards the concrete-block hut a few hundred yards away in the clearing. At the perimeter she began to run, eyes downcast watching for trip hazards.
Shivering, as a sudden cold wind curled around her exposed arms and legs, she resumed running. Around her the jungle rustled and trembled, plants and trees jostled each other like confused dancers on a suddenly unlit dance-floor. Further away a tree was torn from its veins, crushing a forty foot swathe through the overgrown flora.
“Oh my god,” she shivered, over awed for a moment, “this is madness. What in the name of humanity is going on?”
At the door, Eve paused and fiddled with the lock, the laptop hindering her movement. Struggling with the sticky catch, the sudden silence registered on her preoccupied brain. The wind had dropped so suddenly it was hard to believe its ferocity only moments ago. She turned quickly, suddenly fearful that someone was watching her; seeing no-one she gave the warped wooden door a desperate heave and it sprung open.
Once inside amongst familiar surroundings Eve laughed at herself. “Fancy getting so worried about a summer storm, anyone would think I’d never been alone in a jungle before”. Although reassured by the sound of her own voice, she was frightened.
A commotion began outside, rustling and frantic squeaking was coming from the outside loo; a hole in the ground surrounded by a flimsy wooden trellis. Peering out of glassless window, Eve observed two rats near the latrine area, fighting. A female rat was slowly being overwhelmed by a much larger male as she defended her nest site. Her offspring huddled together in a tight ball at the entrance of the hole, a mass of tails and feet squirming in fear; too large to hide and too small to fight. The rat’s ear splitting death cry dwindled to a gurgle as the male inflicted a fatal bite to her throat. Now limp, she didn’t see the father massacre his young before tearing across the clearing, foam and blood around his mouth, flecks on his hide.
Disgusted, Eve turned away from the window and reached for a fresh bottle of water. Gulping life and sweeping away the horror of patricide, her scientific training took over.
“I’ve gotta find out what’s causing this weird storm and if it has anything to do with all this crazy animal and bird behaviour.”
Reaching for the radio and attaching a fresh battery to the laptop, Eve wondered if the BBC World Weather would be able to enlighten her. The website usually had good quality, live satellite pictures and she wanted to see the extent of the storm.
The radio hissed in defiance, white noise filling the room. She turned it off.
The laptop quietly hummed into life and Eve logged on to BBC weather. What she saw she didn’t understand. The satellite pictures showed the earth wrapped in cloud; not one area of ocean or land mass could be seen, anywhere. Staring at the screen, her mind franticly discarding potential causes and effects, she noticed that the earth appeared to be breathing. The steel grey cloud was expanding with gentle, barely perceptible pulses. A phosphorescent glow wormed through the soupy smog, illuminating dark particles like inverse fireworks.
The laptop crashed; Earth frozen in time.
“Damn; satellite signal failed. Whatever’s going on up there must be causing interference.”
Eve left the now less comforting surroundings of her hut. She felt closed-in, suffocating in the heat and air pressure the wind had left behind. Anxious sweat slicked its way down her neck and cleavage as she opened the door, reaching for fresher air.
Outside, the cloud had formed a thick fog and Eve could barely see the ground in front of her. Squinting towards the jungle, she took a few steps without thinking.
Confused, she realised her stupidity, turned around and hurried in the direction of her hut. Within seconds she realised that she was disorientated and felt adrenalin urging her to run. Swallowing her panic, Eve began to think. She was sure she hadn’t moved more than five paces from the hut door. A plan emerged. If she walked ten paces, turned 180 degrees and returned to her starting point, then turned a quarter turn and repeated the exercise in each direction, she would find the hut once more. Calmer now, Eve began to execute her plan.
A cacophony of noise hit her like the shockwaves of a bomb; she stumbled and landed in the dirt. Within seconds her hands were covered in insects and she felt a wave of movement under her belly as more bugs found the gap between her shirt and her shorts. Repulsed, Eve jumped to her feet, frantically brushing the invaders off. Her nerve endings were alive, prickles of imagined bites coursed across her skin, adrenalin powered and thumped around her heart.
The jungle was alive with the roar and commotion of animals in panic and the destruction of undergrowth. It sounded as if all living creatures were heading towards the clearing. A large rodent crashed into her legs in panic, before scuttling off in a Southerly direction. Eve could feel the passage of other animals close by; their fear of human stench overridden by uncontrollable panic.
Heart thumping and frozen to the spot, Eve began to hyperventilate.
“Panic reflex, or lack of oxygen?” she questioned; the scientist always seeking answers.
She vomited suddenly; fear’s ice fingers winning the battle with logic. She spat bile towards the now invisible ground; rancid and yellow it fell to obscurity.
Looking up, Eve watched as intense, arc-light blue flashes streaked through the cloud, illuminating the swirls of fog.
“That’s so beautiful,” she thought as the earth disintegrated.

Imbolc

Imbolc is one of the four principal festivals of the Irish calendar, celebrated among Gaelic peoples and some other Celtic cultures, either at the beginning of February or at the first local signs of Spring. Most commonly it is celebrated on February 2, which falls halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox in the northern hemisphere. Originally dedicated to the goddess Brigid, in the Christian period it was adopted as St Brigid's Day. In Scotland the festival is also known as Là Fhèill Brìghde, in Ireland as Lá Fhéile Bríde, and in Wales as Gŵyl Fair.
Fire and purification are an important aspect of this festival. Brigid (also known as Brighid, Bríde, Brigit, Brìd) is the Gaelic goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft. As both goddess and saint she is also associated with holy wells, sacred flames, and healing. The lighting of candles and fires represents the return of warmth and the increasing power of the Sun over the coming months.
In Irish, Imbolc (pronounced "im'olk"), derives from the Old Irish i mbolg - which means 'in the belly'. This refers to the pregnancy of ewes. Another name is Oimelc - which means 'ewe's milk'.
The holiday was, and for many still is, a festival of the hearth and home, and a celebration of the lengthening days and the early signs of spring. Celebrations often involved hearthfires, special foods, divination or simply watching for omens (whether performed in all seriousness or as children's games), a great deal of candles, and perhaps an outdoor bonfire if the weather permits.
One folk tradition that continues in both Christian and Pagan homes on St. Brigid's Day (or Imbolc) is that of the Brigid's Bed. The girls and young, unmarried women of the household or village create a corn dolly to represent Brigid, called the Brideog ("little Brigid" or "young Brigid"), adorning it with ribbons and baubles like shells or stones. They make a bed for the Brideog to lie in. On St. Brigid's Eve (January 31), the girls and young women gather together in one house to stay up all night with the Brideog, and are later visited by all the young men of the community who must ask permission to enter the home, and then treat them and the corn dolly with respect.
Brigid is said to walk the earth on Imbolc eve. Before going to bed, each member of the household may leave a piece of clothing or strip of cloth outside for Brigid to bless. The head of the household will smother (or "smoor") the fire and rake the ashes smooth. In the morning, they look for some kind of mark on the ashes, a sign that Brigid has passed that way in the night or morning. The clothes or strips of cloth are brought inside, and believed to now have powers of healing and protection.
On the following day, the girls carry the Brideog through the village or neighborhood, from house to house, where this representation of the Saint/Goddess is welcomed with great honor. Adult women — those who are married or who run a household — stay home to welcome the Brigid procession, perhaps with an offering of coins or a snack. Since Brigid represents the light half of the year, and the power that will bring people from the dark season of winter into spring, her presence is very important at this time of year. [10][7]

Imbolc 1

Imbolc

Brigid whispers softly through chill tar night

Gossamer herald, prophetic promise,

Guardian of spring and Heaul’s healing

Festival fires spark, shadows dance

Snow petals kiss bare earth with icy touch

Disturbed ducks fluster, skimming chill water.

Raven’s craw, clack-chatter in bare roosts

Stalactite cloths cling to hedgerow

Ancient longing fills the stooping spinster

Building hope in her hearth for miracles

Forging the poetry of omens

Maidens honour the straw bride’s bed

Heavy breasted ewes cry to cloud streaked stars

Sprinkled twigs snap as the goddess passes

Her lonely vigil meets dawn’s bleeding

Smoored embers await Brigid’s step

The light bringer’s birch wand protects the chosen

Swollen full moon lights tomorrow’s harsh path

Portents in Brigantii sacred grove

Bridal feast sustain and heal us

E Worlledge

2009