I will close my eyes
and wait for them to ask why
I am not hopeful sleep will have a chance to infect
Before one of them whispers in my ear
Because this home is never empty
I am a refuge
for their fantastic pulsating bodies persistently animated
even in the silence of prayer
walking room to room
burning holes as they go
they think I am immune to pain
they think of me as their building
I have no skin
therefore I gain no bruises
I watch them hour after hour door open and closed
the hair, the eyes, the lips all the same
but each voice different
some complain and others beg and pray
but I never shout back
not a word, not a sound
they know I hear everything
when my candles flicker and light echoes
they can offend and blaspheme
and fight each-other
then loiter around my tombs trying to find me and declare asylum
then fall asleep on my lap
even then my lights stay on
outside their flags and posters pollute the skyline
the air is dirty with hatred, yet still
I manage to exhale and stay upright
the strong one at a funeral
I am their godfather
the first guardian on the reserve list with thousands of children
I treat each one equally
when my candles flicker and light echoes
they think they are safe
I will still be here waiting up
I will not turn out the lights at night when everyone else gets to retire
I am sorry
they have forgotten about my entrance fee
I am sorry they cannot bear the thought
of touching each others palms
and I am sorry I am ready for bed now
I want lights out
the candles that surround my corridors are seducing me
out of consciousness
they want to cradle me
and slowly swaddle me in smokey ribbons
blankets as thin as wafers
promising to keep me hidden
with curtains drawn I can sleep
and I know seekers will knock on my doors
With their questions and justifications
But I will sink further into my bed
their chants will be mere lullabies
I will be the asylum seeker
safe within my concrete walls
burrowed in the highest steeple
Unsure of the sound of my voice unsure if I have a voice
I would ask so many questions
why do you crave protection?
why are you always cold
and wrapped up in your coat of arms?
why must I watch your demonstration
when you can choose
to see me or turn your gaze and ignore?
I would also give thanks for your noise and distraction
because at last my nave is clear
and I can search and pry until I see what my voice looks like
the bells of St Ursula and Peter
the caves of the pinnacles and spires
the beating organ of the swallows nest
humming still until the next song
my voice is the shrine of the three kings it is medieval gold
and Richter’s stained glass rainbow my voice is a floodlight
and it has fallen onto its old face
rattled by harsh intolerant winds and anti-islamic gales
the candles cannot find their wicks
and they mourn for each human whose voices
were once melodies lengthly democratic songs
the tunes came from east and west north and south
illuminating the other side of the Rhine
and we remember when you imitated my stained glass window
with a gallery of nationalities
Saturday October 27th the anniversary of the closing down of Leavesden Imbecile Asylum, the day Diana and Stephen Ryle made the move from their London flat to their new house, and the day a young woman’s body was found in the shed in the bottom of the garden of 45 East Lane, stabbed to death by garden shears.
“You’re not wearing your coat” Diana mimicked a shiver and turned on the cars heating.
Stephen smiled. He loved her caring personality, he believed she had enough care for every and anyone that needed it. Stephen glanced into her eyes, and felt sorry for his wife for being cursed with an aptitude for kindness he had witnessed nowhere before.
The road was clear of the usual weekend traffic, and the journey was as effortless as he had envisioned when he was lying awake and anxious in bed last night. In the early hours of the morning as Diana slept, he watched her, mesmerised by how vulnerable she looked asleep.
“We should be there in twenty minutes Di” reaching the end of the motorway, Stephen stroked her cheek imagining her in the home he had been waiting for since they met. As soon as he could he used his inheritance to put down a deposit for a house. Stephen spent no longer than half an hour in the estate agents before deciding on a new build in the leavesden estate. A fresh red brick, two bedrooms, with a large garden, and easy access to the Country Park and chapel.
As they pulled up to the entrance of the estate a mid morning fog was falling on the houses, restricting their view of the new slate rooftops. Stephen stopped quickly swerving to avoid the man in the middle of the road. The man who was dressed in brown suede trousers and a dirty grey shirt revealed a tobacco stained smile as he limped to the pavement.
“Great way to introduce yourself to the neighbours Ste, by nearly running them over!” Diana chuckled as Stephen turned the engine back on.
“Knowing our luck the poor old sod probably lives next door” she opened her window to wave the man over and introduce herself, but when she looked out he was gone.
“Here we are Di! 45 East Lane” Stephen pulled up on the drive and leant over to kiss his wife
Getting out of the car and looking at the house, Diana’s face froze. Her pupils dilated, and her skin acquired sheen of frost. She had the face of a frightened little girl, her fear was confirmed with a zipping of her coat right up to her chin and the folding or her slender arms. Stephen went in, and she followed. She stopped on the doorstop and glanced back at the street, scanning her eyes across the view searching for the limping old man. Disappointed, once inside she closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of fresh paint and removed her coat.
The house was empty, and undecorated. White walls, and white carpets. The removal van had been the day before and the living room was full of boxes and furniture. Diana sat on the kitchen worktop and ran her hands over the granite surface in a motion similar to disturbing the surface of a pond with your little finger.
“Hello in there! You okay?” Stephen’s voice was uncomfortably loud and he pressed his face against hers.
“Shall we start unpacking?” she jumped up, and out of her momentary trance.
It was late evening before even half of the boxes had been unpacked. They had unpacked the essentials, the bedding, a lamp, the wine glasses, the toiletries, her books, the case of wine her mother gave them as a small moving in gift, and her rocking chair. As dusk gradually calmed the walls of their luminosity they stood and looked out at the garden.
“You look tired, take a break” Diana whispered as she moved his fringe away from his eyes “I’m fine, where’s the rest of those boxes?” he took a sip of wine
“Stephen the boxes can wait until tomorrow, nothing else matters tonight, the bed is made. Relax” she took the glass from his hand and stole a sip.
They stood there watching the sun fall and the autumn darkness exhale its maroon smoke into the air. She looked up at her husband, back to the mess of boxes and furniture, and back at him again and let herself smile genuinely for the first time that day.
“Ste did you see the local down the road as we drove past? Why don’t you go, check It out, have a pint, relax?” She asked finishing his wine.
“I’ll be okay, I could do with a long bath and when you get back we’ll have a nightcap in the garden” she picked up his wallet from the kitchen counter.
“It’s our first night here Di, and you want to get rid of me. It’s my house” he teased as he retrieved his wallet.
“Maybe I’m planning a private housewarming and want it to be a surprise” she leant in and kissed him.
It takes Stephen seven minutes to walk from his house to The Swan, he walks briskly. He walks, with his hands in his pockets, facing the ground. It’s only 7pm but the street feels emptier than London in the early hours of the morning. When he gets to the pub he considers turning back. It isn’t what he’s used to, it’s dimly lit, what Diana would describe as homely and he misses her. He crosses the road, and walks in.
“I’ll have a Brandy please” he leans over the bar and scans the shelves.
Sipping his drink he searches for a place to sit, he decides on a round table with one chair beside the open fire. He falls into the chair and let’s himself deflate. He feels the flames of the fire comfort his cheeks and palms and offers his hands into the fire.
“Careful, one more drink and we’ll have to rush you to hospital with burns” Stephen stood up startled by a man’s voice, wavering and interruptive.
“I know you, I, I think I owe you an apology” Stephen reached for an extra chair and hurriedly places it beside his own
“It was a joke, put your hands as close to the fire as you like what do I care” the man laughed revealing a couple of eroding teeth
“No, I think I nearly hit you with my car earlier? I was with my wife and I couldn’t see you through the fog. I swerved and you ran off”
The man prolonged his grin and sat down beside Stephen, offering his hand to shake. It was unusual for Stephen to experience such humility and carefree a nature in a person, he found it hard to respond initially and simply shook the man’s hand and smiled in return. All Stephen could see was a grotesque smile and dirty clothes and he felt an unusual guilt surface, realising he was one of those people who judges a person’s intentions by their appearance. He picked up his keys from the table and half stood up, it was an easy time to make his excuses and leave, his drink was finished and the silence between them was becoming awkward.
He stood up and went to the bar to order two brandies.
“You’re definitely new, no one orders Brandy in here, rip off!” the man was laughing so hard he spilt half his drink before even taking a sip. “It’s Roy by the way”.
“I’m Stephen, I just moved in down East Lane” Stephen sunk once again into his chair
“East lane, that’s where I used to work before they laid me off. That expensive new housing estate made sure of that. I used to work as a gardener in the asylum, but three years ago the decided to shut the place down and build houses. East lane was the chapel and recreational grounds. Being a gardener wasn’t as carefree as you would think! My god were they strict, they made a fuss about what we had to wear, how many hours we worked, how short we cut the bloody grass” Roy rolled his eyes.
“The asylum? The estate agent said it was a hospital”
“Ha! Is that what they call it? Flaming ignorance. Forty five years I looked after the gardens there, with the help of Eric mind you. Eric is a better worker, but that’s because of his ways. He’ll do anything you tell him, anything. He came to Leavesden as a patient in 1958, he was accused of murdering his young wife. They thought he did it because of his ways, you see he’s particular, likes routine and doesn’t adjust to change. That’s all he was. Eric was no murderer, I’ve been there long enough to know which of em’ where criminals and which were misunderstood.”
“If he was there for murder surely they locked him up?” Stephen struggled to conceal an amused expression
“Sure he sounds suspicious, but they proved him innocent in the end, like I said. About fifteen years after admission, he was cleared of charges. They said the girl killed herself and made it look like he did it. Then he was allowed to work. Stabbed herself she did, who would be able to do that, sick woman” Roy smiled, and offered Stephen a cigarette.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t realise. I hope you don’t mind, but how could you really be sure he didn’t, you know, kill her?”
“Ha! Ha! Because he’s as daft as anything. Let me tell you, whatever them instincts of ours are, they’re rarely wrong. I knew he was innocent the day he turned up all tears and wails he was” Roy exhaled the smoke from his cigarette.
“You’ll see if you meet him, daft as anything. Harmless.” They finished their drinks.
“Oh stay! Stay for another” Roy leaned closer to Stephen, forcing him to wince at the smell of his sour breath.
“I would stay for one more, but Diana’s waiting at home. But it was great to meet you properly. I need to tell Diana your story, she loves all that stuff. Safe journey home Roy” Stephen picked up his keys
“Let’s hope I don’t get run over” Roy laughed uncontrollably. Weeping with laughter, he was stamping his feet on the floor and saliva was seeping through his charred gums.
Stephen made sure he had his wallet and his keys, took the glasses to the bar, and thanked the young boy polishing the taps.
“Poor old guy, comes in here every night and gets himself plastered. Been that way for years Dad said, he calls him a raving lunatic, but I think he’s just bored” the boy dimmed the lights and rang the bell.
“Roy, last orders mate!” he ushered Stephen closer and whispered “we have to make sure he doesn’t leave Eric home alone for too long”.
Diana poured herself more wine, and took the bubble bath and the bottle of Chardonnay in either hand. Switching off the lamp she let out a sigh of relief that lasted the entirety of her journey up the fifteen stairs to the bathroom. Turning on the taps and removing her heavy jeans, she climbed into the bath. She took a long sip of her wine as she poured the bubble bath under the faucet leaning in to inhale the scent of rose and lavender, the scent of her wedding night.
When the doorbell rang she giggled. A little drunk, she took no precaution getting out of the bath. She nearly slipped as she grabbed a hand towel that only covered her torso.
“Forgotten your keys yet again! Oh old habits will definitely be dying for you darling” Assisted by another giggle. Feeling a draft she paused as she reached the hallway, she wrapped the towel tighter around her shoulders.
Early morning and a crowd of mourners are gathered around a plot of distressed earth. A silent rain is weeping from the sky. There aren’t many of them, three umbrellas shelter their heads comfortably. Only one of them, an elderly woman is crying the rest are looking into the grave with resting expressions. Aching from the weight of the freezing dew the white tulips decorating the headstone hang their heads. The elderly woman emerges from underneath her umbrella, and hands it to the vicar. She is shaking and walking towards the headstone.
“Michael had to go, they were going to lock you away” her voice is quivering.
The umbrellas remain still, a strong roof hiding the heads of the locals gathered here to pay their respects to an old friend. The woman who is now hunched from the weight of her wet clothes has tired from crying, her voice wails like the crows circling above. Head bowed like the limp January grass, she reaches for the headstone. Trailing her chalky anaemic fingers across the inscription she kneels and rests her forehead against the side of the expensive grey slate. Here Lies Hazel Luna Born March 3rd 1935, Died December 31st 1965 Taken Suddenly May her soul Rest In Peace. Minutes pass with her sat in front of it. The wind sways like a metronome, and the woman continues gliding her fingers back and forth as if playing a stringed instrument. The mourners are all close their eyes in appreciation. She sits there, dead still, as if imagining time had frozen.
“Hazel, my dear Hazel, please find peace” a whisper is all she can manage.
The vicar reaches for her hands, helps her to her feet and offers her a handkerchief. Mrs Luna stands slowly then holds onto his coat and sobs violently. Rain progresses into hail and sleet, urging the gravediggers to begin shovelling earth onto the coffin, and finalise the burial of Miss Hazel Luna.
“Forgive me” the woman utters as she is cradled and taken aside by two of the mourners.
It was a January evening when I arrived in St Lawrence Village, a small Hamlet just west of the capital. As I walked through the high street towards the Churchyard the hairs on my cheek stood up although I felt no chill provoking their movement. Had I not been so cold and immobile I would have shuddered upon realising nothing had changed, the Village was still in the winter of 1947. I wanted so badly to see the Butcher still alive and well handing out his warming broth. My journey through the village to the church was uninterrupted. Releasing the latch from the gate and stepping into the churchyard the memories of evenings playing hide and seek, of hours spent in amongst the gravestones trying to guess what each person would have looked like replayed in front of me. I was briskly reminded of the way the church deprived the grounds from any light, its muddy brick exterior meant it was permanently cloudy and damp. The grounds resembled a swamp, and every step was taken with caution. Not long after I walked across it I slipped and fell onto my back, I lay there for a few seconds imagining what it would be like to be dead and buried in here. As I stood up, I looked at the trees. Such gaunt things with no leaves or colour, as dead as the skeletons they were supposed to be sheltering. I couldn’t help but view them as symbols. Perhaps they spell out what it means if you find yourself roaming here too long. It means you too, are dead and rotting, a resident of the earth and no longer a wanderer.
The wind animated every skeletal limb of those awful ugly trees, but I heard no rustling. The silence was ethereal. With every gust that passed a craving in me grew stronger, I had no idea what this craving was for but It whirled and spun faster and faster. Until my stomach felt like a small innocent bird trapped in barbed wire manically flapping its wings trying to break free but only speeding up his death. An overwhelming feeling of anxiety surrounded me, and I feared I might faint. I made my way to the bench beneath the trees, offering a panoramic view of the graveyard and the dimly lit high street illuminated the background replacing the missing stars from this evening’s sky. The crows gathered and opened their beaks, they were screaming and screeching at each other but I heard nothing. Looking up at the sky clotted by sharp black clouds, I took a seat. I waited to feel the icy rain water solder my thighs to the bench, but I felt nothing. Too cold to feel numb. I could feel, taste, smell, hear, and see only my thoughts, and I felt like a migraine.
The churchyard was empty. Desperate for company, I scanned the ground with my eyes hoping to spot a dog walker or someone. Half an hour passed and it was still just me, the crows, and the trees. A darkness was looming over the village, night was setting in but my thoughts never turned to leaving and finding shelter. Instead I wandered further into the graveyard, I wandered until I was amongst the oldest of graves and the Church began fading from view. Wading through headstones I saw names from my childhood. Every other headstone a person I saw last time I was in St Lawrence. This was the longest I had been here without seeing another human being. The privilege of company seemed illegitimate, as though I had returned as a criminal, or as though I wasn’t really here at all. I reached in my pocket for a tissue to catch the tears I expected to warm my cheek any second now, I took hold of my scarf and brought it closer to my neck preparing to comfort my throat when the lump that accompanies the doom of loss blocks your airways. Neither the tears or the lump came, my vision and my airways were clear. More than clear, I felt every molecule of the ice in the air. The anxiety returned and I had an urge to move in some drastic way to confirm myself as living, I wanted to collapse onto my knees and scream. To never stop screaming until someone came. I would scream in mourning of the village where nothing has changed apart from the faces or lack of. I looked up to remind myself I was actually alive, walking, and breathing. The clouds began to rapidly cluster. I felt an intense claustrophobia, and an impending sense of doom like I might die if I didn’t feel something soon. Then the rain came, the fine type that you think won’t affect you much but when you get inside you’re soaked through to the bone. I ran towards the church for shelter. The door was already open, inside a fire was burning, but no one was minding it. I walked straight over to it and leant my face close in to dry off, but I was already dry. Not a drop of rain had landed on my body.
“Am I alone?” I asked, but I couldn’t be sure if any sound surfaced from my lungs.
The church was as silent as the yard. Not even the pelting rain which had quickly progressed into a storm could be heard. Nor the cracking of each flame, or the echoes of my heavy breaths.
I couldn’t return to my mother’s house in this state. I hadn’t seen her in five years, since the summer of 1960. On a beautiful Tuesday morning I gave birth to my Michael. Mother had had the adoption arranged soon after I told her the news of my pregnancy. All the while I carried Michael I knew he wasn’t really mine, I wept night after night. But she had no words of comfort to offer, all she had to say was “actions have consequences Hazel” which she said every day for nine months. I woke the day after his birth to an empty cot, and she woke the day after that to an empty house. Lily from school moved to her parents’ farmhouse the year before, and I knew where it was because I stayed with her at Easter. It took me a few days, but I got there and begged her to let me work for her. I vowed to never see mother again, never set foot in St Lawrence.
Last week the migraines and the pains started, Lily said I might have Polio, that horrendous disease that killed Tommy Cleaves last month, he had migraines and muscle weakness that made him bed ridden. On Friday night his mother sent him to bed with a cup of Horlicks and a cold flannel for his head, when she went to wake the poor thing in the morning he was dead.
“Nonsense!” I told her “I don’t have a disease Lily, I am exhausted from the guilt of leaving mother”
“Go back home Hazel, god knows how long your mother has left on the earth, maybe you need to forgive her and if you can’t do that just forget” Lily stroked my face and told me to have the afternoon off. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. I needed to go home. I told her I wasn’t to be disturbed, made a cold flannel for my head and buried myself in my bed.
Our reunion will be tomorrow. Yes, I will show up on her doorstep as the Hazel she knew and supported. The only child she and my father adored and nurtured. We’ll talk, my headache will clear and Michael’s memory will be just that, a memory. Not a reason for hatred, or a trigger for pain, but something that happened to me that I will never forget.
All actions have consequences Hazel her face refused to fade with the closing of my eyes, her eyes pierced through my eyelids and into my dreams. Terrified of the darting stare and the repetitive snarlthat grew into an unbearable bark, I curled into the foetal position for protection. Craving peace and ignorance of my senses I was soon guided into an anaesthetised sleep by the white light of the fire.
When I woke I went outside to check the rain had cleared, it hadn’t. There were people huddled around a plot in the distance, I probably knew them everyone knew everyone here, but from back here their faces were hidden by a black and white mosaic of umbrellas and tissues. I walked over, and joined them. I tapped who I recognised as Ian Somers from the watch shop on the shoulder but he didn’t move a muscle. I put my face right up to his and whispered “Ian, is it someone I knew?” and his face remained still and emotionless.
“Ian! I know it’s a funeral but you can talk to me, even just a whisper?” still nothing.
I wandered into the crowd, and saw an elderly woman hunched in front of the headstone. She was blocking the view of the name, and I turned to Rosemary, who lived two doors down from us.
“Rosemary?” she didn’t move, or blink. I felt worse than invisible, I felt completely visible and painfully ignored. My head felt as though it might explode, and I felt like throwing myself into the grave just to get a reaction.
Then the elderly woman stood up and turned around.
I have had a small fish inside of my body for some weeks
It’s small enough to swim the channels of my veins
But too big to rest anywhere
Some days it slides up and down my intestines
But today it’s stuck in the crevices of my spine
Slapping my bones with its acidic fins
I guess it’s hungry
It needs to get out
Thrusting my back up high I’m attempting to coerce it into my stomach
So I can vomit the poor little thing out and we can both go find something to eat
September through to December promises the release of a fantastic collection of titles in fiction, non-fiction, and children’s genres. I am overwhelmed by the volume of new titles soon to be released! However, to avoid a ridiculously long post I have selected … Continue reading →
Writer’s block is like the sensation of sleep paralysis, convinced that you’re awake, yet you physically cannot wake up. Plain creepy and awfully weird. Writer’s block is terrifying, especially seeing as you’re likely to be writing to a deadline. I cannot really tell you how to banish it because I don’t know how! All I know is that it visits me all too often and I have tried and tested numerous ways of coercing it to make a swift exit. I have put together some of my best tips, and I hope that if you suffer from this numbing bee sting that you find this short list useful.
Keep Calm and Carry on Writing. When writer’s block strikes by all means take a short break. Do something you find relaxing, take a short walk, listen to music, or (my favourite) do some breathing exercises, but do not abandon your work entirely. This is the worst thing to do. I cannot help but think that writer’s block could be re-worded as ‘fear’. More than half of the times I have experienced it I couldn’t write because I was scared. My head was blocked by hundreds of ‘what ifs?’ What if this is terrible? What if no one likes my work? What if I’m just not a good writer? What if this never goes away? Whenever I have experienced writer’s block these are the questions I have turned over and over in my mind. The problem was essentially just a wave of fear which was eroding all of the creative ideas and plans in my mind. On the basis that writers block is nothing but fear, I figure the best way to try to relieve it is to face it. Take the old ‘face your fear head on’ advice and put your pen to paper. Such simple, yet such difficult advice I know. Your creative ideas and your confidence need to outshine and blind every niggling ‘what if’. This is rare fight, because it has to be won verbally.
Be the reader. Just write, no matter how ugly it gets. Remember the only person that has to read this at the moment is, well, you! You are alone and that means you are in complete control.Not only do I think that this time can make you feel as though you were not invisible but in a room full of people painfully visible and plain ignored. I think it’s really easy to let anxieties jade the simple fact that no one else is involved in your writing and that being alone is what you need. You need to spend time accepting this blockade of anxieties in order to understand the root of the problem. The critics, the publisher, the potential reader are all fictional. Yes, they matter, and of course someone will have to judge and recognise your writing for it to go anywhere public. However, right now it is just you and your pages (or page) and fear needn’t let you forget how much power you have. For this time let yourself be the reader that loves how you write, heck, let yourself be the reader that is obsessed with your work and absolutely loves it! See your work through the eyes of someone who admires it, it will banish the anxieties that are lowering your confidence.
Summon some support. If I had to select just one tip that I thought really worked well, and that wasn’t just me rambling on about loving yourself in order to ‘banish Mr Writer’s Block and his brother Mr Fear..’ it is to summon some support from all the writers who have ever inspired you. When I’m at crisis point and the words just aren’t coming out, it really helps me to take half an hour out and switch writing for reading. I surround myself with all of the work that I have every admired. The books on my shelf that I am quite literally in love with. I summon support from my favourite writers by reading and re-reading their work. In doing so I stop to remind myself what amazing writing sounds like. It’s like I hear their voice demanding me to write like I know I can. To do the thing that they first inspired me to try. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know that whenever I read my favourite authors it’s not long before my fingers are burning to write something!
Writers block is certainly debilitating. If approached the wrong way, for instance, by abandoning your work for days, you can easily feed it and it will grow stronger. You do not want to let it grow beyond your control. Remember writer’s block is only ever temporary. You are not a bad writer, and you are not the only writer to experience these fears and anxieties. With persistence and pride you will be back to being the enthusiastic word loving nerd that I know you all are!
Hi everyone I’m back! I apologize for neglecting WordPress for the past few weeks… I have been writing, but I have been focusing on journaling and creative writing. I have also been abroad where the wifi connection wasn’t brilliant (to say the least) and … Continue reading →