High Tide - Low Tide

A light rain fell on the town in the cold, grey light of the early morning.
Another day slowly dawned. It dawned on the still slumbering masses, safe in their beds. It dawned on the early rising milkmen, huddled against the cold in their milk vans. It dawned on the birds in the trees planted along the riverside as the driving force of nature brought the first notes of the dawn chorus to their throats. It even dawned on the still form of James Fletcher but he could not appreciate the start of the new day nor the singing of the nearby birds to herald the dawn. For just when James had thought that his life could not get any worse as he had wandered his way miserably back home, he was proved wrong.

The water lapped gently against the sides of his body. His middle-aged face looked calm and peaceful, its lines somehow softened, smoothed of care and worry. James seemed to be sleeping, but the blue tinge of his lips suggested that it would be a very long sleep indeed.

A figure sat on the riverbank quietly regarding the body lying amongst the mud and rocks and water. He hugged his knees tighter to his chest and, sighing, started to rock back and forth gently. Neither the rain nor the chill of the morning seemed to worry him as he watched the water slowly start to fill the river again nor did he make any move as a tall, dark-haired man in a long black coat stepped up behind him. Without turning, he raised his arm and gestured towards the body in the river.

"What a pointless way to die," he said his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
If the tall man had heard him, he made no indication. He simply stood staring impassively out across the river, watching the sun start it's weary climb into the sky.

"He was attacked by a gang of kids, you know," said the sitting man as he continued to rock slowly back and forth. "A gang of kids. Not much older than school age."

The tall man inclined his head towards the voice but remained silent.
"They got angry when they found out he had no money on him and threw him into the river." The sitting figure shifted his gaze to a rather shabby, leather object floating in the slowly rising water, next to James' body. "And his wallet," he whispered and sighed deeply.

He lowered his chin to rest on his knees.
"I guess they didn't know it was low tide," he said quietly.
His gaze returned to the body which was now starting to move in the current of the water refilling the river. He watched it thoughtfully. After a few moments the corners of his mouth started to twitch and he tried to suppress a smirk. He turned his attention to his silent companion in an attempt to regain his composure but this did not help and, if anything, seemed to make it worse.
The smirk became a smile; the smile became a manic grin, the grin a giggle and then finally deep throated laughter-the laughter of someone who has finally got the joke.
He toppled over backwards onto the damp grass clutching his sides, doubled over with silent mirth.
The tall man watched him, speechless and without emotion. His dark hair waved slightly in the light breeze, seemingly untouched by the drizzle.
After a while the laughing man stopped and slowly uncurled himself to lay full length on the cool, damp grass.
"That's the story of his life, I'm afraid”, he said softly. "Low tide."
The tall figure regarded him quizzically.
"A nobody, killed for nothing in an empty river. I suppose he broke his neck in the fall," sighed the prone figure, slowly running his fingers through the blades of grass. "A pointless death for a pointless man with no purpose to his pointless life. I mean what a way to die. Some people die heroically. Their deaths make a difference to other. You know, saving lives or protecting people. But who will mourn for him? No wife, no lover, no children, no family." He shook his head. "Quite frankly, who would notice, who would care if he had never been? Who would care?"
The tall man seemed to consider this for a moment, a long drawn-out moment, and when he finally spoke, in a voice the man lying on the grass more felt than heard, it seemed like the only noise in the universe.

The passing of one, touches and changes the lives of all those whom they meet.
The figure on the grass lay quietly for long minutes.
"But he accomplished nothing," he remarked eventually. "He will be remembered for nothing. Who will remember him or even speak his name in a hundred years time?"
The tall, dark man shook his head slowly and spoke again.
“A name matters little in the universal scale of things”, he said. “And even if no-one does remember, the actions of the life have already influenced those met and, in turn those they meet, and so on. An expanding ripple on the lake of existence. Some ripples may appear larger than others but all will reach the edge of the lake eventually, no matter how imperceptible they have become.”
The man on the grass sat up and stared at the dark figure.
"You mean he did leave his mark on the world?" he enquired earnestly.
Yes, nodded the tall, dark man. But why do you keep referring to "he" and "him"?
The man sitting on the grass thought about this for a moment.
"I don't know," he shrugged finally. "I suppose it helps me to deal with the situation better."
He turned back to the body floating quietly in the rising water.
"Poor James Fletcher," he sighed. He seemed to think for a moment. "I mean, poor me."

Life is just a cycle of birth, death and rebirth, said the tall man.
He briefly inclined his head towards the water and his pale features seemed to soften slightly.
Like the tides, he whispered. The tall man straightened up.
“JAMES FLETCHER”, he called out.
The spirit of James Fletcher stood up from where he had been sitting on the grass watching his own body, bobbing gently in the rising tide.

“Your time is over but a new tide will arise”, declared Death.
James’ spirit nodded to Death. "Thank you. I'm ready now."
Death smiled slightly and reached. A scythe with a blade like a sliver of night appeared in his pale hands and, nodding to James, he swung it in a lazy arc.

The spirit of James Fletcher stepped forward to meet his destiny, and behind him the tide continued to rise...

~~Reflection~~

It had been unsettlingly easy to get hold of a gun, Adam thought. The new gun laws were supposed to stop people from owning hand guns but all he had had to do was go to one of the seedier areas of London and find a pawnshop. The shop owner hadn't asked any questions or for any identification and within minutes, Adam had left the shop with the gun weighing heavily in his pocket, and what had just happened and what was yet to come weighing heavily on his mind. Jack had been there of course. There was no getting away from Jack or his actions.
The cold steel of the weapon felt alien beneath Adam's fingers and contrasted strangely with the warm colour and texture of the wooden hand-grip. Adam slowly turned the cylinder of the revolver, his fingers brushing lightly over the head of each bullet in turn until he came to the chamber with the spent round in it.

"That's three hundred dollars well spent mate," the pawnshop owner had said as he handed the gun towards Adam and placed the money in his pocket. Adam had reached for the gun but Jack had picked it up.

"That's a forty five that is," he had grinned as Jack had slowly loaded the pistol. Jack thumbed in the last bullet and spun the cylindrical chamber.

"You hit someone with that mate and they won't cause you any more trouble". The pawnbroker had smiled. Jack had smiled too. Then he had raised the gun and fired.

"No more trouble." Jack had put the gun in Adam's coat pocket. Then he had recovered the money, now damp with the pawnbroker’s blood. "We should leave now," he'd said with a grin and had hurried from the shop taking Adam with him. All the way to the underground station and for the rest of the journey home to his flat Adam had listened for the sound of sirens telling him that Jack's crime had been found out but there had been none, and as the door or his flat had closed behind him he had finally relaxed enough to allow himself to think about what had happened. Jack's laughter had rung in his ears as he had leaned over the toilet retching.

Adam lay the gun down on the bedside table and walked across to the window. The darkness outside seemed to huddle in corners, away from the street-lights as if trying to shelter from the heavy rain falling upon the city. The water poured down to one side of the window where the gutter was blocked with muck and filth. Storm clouds gathered overhead as if promising that this was just a sample of the dark times ahead. Jack smiled as the first of the lightening cut through the sky.

"This is my kind of weather," he remarked with a grin. Adam closed his eyes on the scene.

"Why did you kill that pawnbroker Jack?" he asked-his voice no more than a whisper containing no emotion, just a great sense of weariness. Jack snorted in derision.

"You know exactly why I did it," he muttered. "I did it because you couldn't."

"But why Jack?"

Jack sighed in exasperation. "Because he was scum Adam! The dregs of humanity. All the stuff in that shop, all the rings, the watches, the televisions, were stolen. Either stolen directly and fenced through that slug or stolen by him for a pittance from people who couldn't afford not to sell. The man was a leech, a parasite. He deserved what he got!" Adam sighed. He found it so hard to argue with Jack sometimes. All too often when he looked inside himself he found that he agreed with the sentiments if not the methods.

Adam reached out and drew the curtains closed, blocking out the world outside for a while. Moving over to the bed he lay down and stared silently up at the cracked and crumbling ceiling above him. Slowly his mind sorted through the events of the day again, searching, questing, and probing for what? For something, for anything that he could hold up before Jack to stop what he knew was coming, but there was nothing. Jack was right. The pawnbroker had deserved it. And as he decided this, a tear gently rolled down Adam's cheek and he wept for his own morality. Sometimes he really hated Jack. Adam turned to look upon the gun-Jack’s instrument of retribution. It would be so easy he thought. So easy to reach out and take the gun-to take the gun and kill Jack. But he knew he would not. Adam knew that in Jack’s death lay his own demise. They were together now as they had been since Jack first appeared in Adam's life. That day would burn forever in his mind.

The jeers of the other children had rained down upon him with almost as much force as the fists and feet that struck him. He had tried to flee, to escape the torment but had been tripped and as his head had struck the concrete they had closed in with the eagerness of the ignorant. Then there had been Jack. Most of Adam's tormentors had fled with minor injuries. One had received a broken arm. Two others had been hospitalized. Adam had been expelled. Jack had gone with him to his new school though and again to the next after a similar incident. After that there had been no more trouble. Bad news like Adam tended to get around. And all the time Jack kept Adam safe from harm.

"They deserved it too, Adam," said Jack his voice perhaps a little softer for just a moment, then back to its normal harsh self. Adam sighed. Jack always knew what he was thinking.

"They were evil," yawned Jack turning toward the gun. Reaching out a hand Jack caressed the cold metal and smiled darkly as the weapon glittered in the light of the bedside lamp.

"That's what they said about you after what you did to them," accused Adam but with little conviction. This conversation had played through to often and he knew both sides of it by heart. But then, deep down, he always knew what Jack was going to say. Jack just laughed.

"That isn't what they said and you know it," Jack retorted with a wicked grin. Adam lowered his gaze from the gun.

"No," he breathed, his voice no more that a whisper. "They said that I was evil. No one ever blames you." Jack shrugged.

"Can I help that?" he asked with a smile. Adam fell silent.

For long minutes there was silence. Jack reached out and picked up the gun. "Time to get started," he muttered, his voice suddenly serious. Adam rose from the bed and walked over to the window and peering out through the crack in the curtains.

"Why us?" he whispered, staring out at the rain soaked streets as another peel of thunder rolled across the city.

"If not us then who?" growled Jack, his voice low and menacing. "The law doesn't work and the police can’t deal with the spreading evil." Jack raised the gun. "Only you and I know how to fight evil, and that is to fight it on its own level. Our evil against the evil out there." Jack gazed out of the window, his eyes pits of darkness in the shadows of the room.

Adam sighed weakly, again feeling the weariness of his spirit but knowing there would be no rest for him now. Slowly he moved over to the mirror and gazed at his reflection.

"I won't kill," his said his voice resigned but resolute.

"You won't have to," replied the reflection of Jack. "I'll do it for you."
"As long as we are clear on that," whispered Adam with a nod at his reflection. In the mirror Jack nodded back.

"Agreed."

Adam reached out with his empty hand and picked up his coat and he pulled it on. Jack removed a bullet from the pocket and replaced the spent round with a new bullet. Adam pulled up the collar. Jack put the gun in the coat pocket and smiled. Adam took one last look around the dingy flat. Then Jack stepped out into the night and Adam went with him in silence...

The Curse

The Tower
Nadira felt the tower walls edge closer, imagined the spiders creeping from their damp beds to crawl over her skin. The fever strangled her once more. Fighting it she struggled to the window and collapsed - breathing in the icy air. Outside the fields stretched for miles, laughing with silent scorn at her weakness.

For twelve months Nadira had waited - endured her suffocating prison - hoping that each night would be the last, spent in a place she imagined equal only to hell.

And so the days were torn away, the nights plagued her and she had to acknowledge defeat. No one was coming. As always her thoughts turned to those who had betrayed her and her father. She had never expected him to keep his promise of banishment. It seemed his love was not as unconditional as she had thought. Perhaps she could have borne this pain - if only he had not deserted her also. She closed her eyes; a fierce refusal to meet the vision of his face, slowing drowning in an army of sparring thoughts.

She made a vow to herself in that dungeon, witnessed only by the silent, solid walls of her prison. She would never trust anyone with her heart again.
Looking out at the sweeping fields - licked with icy morning dew - she recalled making another promise. A promise that was everything and nothing….

A Chance Meeting
Leaving her three cousins behind in a giggling heap Nadira left the dwindling game of bowls in search of Alfie, the Palace’s groomsman. He was in the stable-yard, lowering the stirrups on her frisky bay gelding Pixie who snorted with impatience at her approach. Alfie’s face bore a look of reproach as he saw her fine dress but he pursed his lips and said nothing.
"He’s in a right mood today miss, he’ll be playing you up, I’m telling you."
"He’ll be fine once we’re out there, he just hates being cooped up in the stables all day."
"Hmm I hope your right. Now I don’t want you cantering down those ditches again."
"Alfie stop worrying we’ll-"
"It’s far too dangerous not to mention improper for a lady."
"Improper! Alfie-"
"Especially if you’re riding side saddle as you’re meant to be Miss Nadira."

With a ‘no more nonsense’ look he gave her a leg up, produced a whip and frowned at her obvious haste to get going.
"Honestly, you encourage that horse Nadira, you really do."
Eventually he nodded with satisfaction, and without a second’s pause Nadira had smacked the bay’s flank and left the stable-yard. Sighing Alfie turned his back on the pair and strode off in search of a task less provoking.

Half an hour later and streaked with sweat Nadira pulled herself up from one of the muddiest ditches she had ever encountered.
"Pixie, you don’t know how lucky you are, if I’d have hurt myself..."

She had to laugh, it was her own fault, and she was constantly being warned about her "adventurous" riding. But with such extensive countryside surrounding the palace she just couldn’t resist a fast ride and a few jumps.
"That’s enough for today Pixie, we’d better get back before father threatens to give you away again!"

Nadira leapt up into the saddle, one foot in the stirrup. Just as she was reaching for the other, a flurry of trumpets blasted out from somewhere in the distance distracting her. She leaned forward to listen; suddenly a loud shot rung out - unnerving Pixie who surged forward into a hasty gallop. Losing her footing, Nadira was violently flung over her horse’s neck and landed hard in a crumpled heap on the damp ground.

Her eyes swam and she struggled to see. On hearing a voice she tried to sit up but an aching pain in her side forced her to sink back down.
"Hey, be careful there, you had a nasty fall."

As her eyes slowly regained their focus, she looked down to the arm that was gently helping her sit up. She assumed it must belong to one of her uncle’s men - sent out to search for her. Looking shyly into the face of her rescuer, she caught her breath and quickly averted her eyes. The man helping her was no servant of the king; he was a young, handsome man and from his exquisite dress and private crest, most definitely a noble.
"I’m so sorry to disturb your journey sir, I, my horse was scared and I lost my footing."

The young man remained silent but his eyes danced distinctly with laughter. Feeling extremely embarrassed she attempted to rise with dignity and flushed at the offer of his hand to help her up.
"You’re clearly in pain. Please let me help you. "

Realising that she had no idea where Pixie was, or just how far from home she’d ridden, she accepted his hand - cringing at her dirty one and wishing she had taken Alfie’s advice to avoid the muddy ditches. Gently lifting her up onto the saddle of his horse, he leapt up behind her, supporting her bad side whilst urging his horse on at a brisk walk. Nadira awkwardly leaned back into his chest, aching too much to sit as rigid as was proper. She stared at his hands - not knowing what to say. It was a feeling alien to her; only that morning she had been teased about her constant chatter.
"You could talk the hind legs off a donkey, that’s what father says." The laughing voice of her little cousin Ella, trying to mimic the grave baritone of uncle Ivor made her giggle.

"What’s so funny?"
The question brought her back to reality with a jolt and she mumbled a weak excuse that it was nothing. A feeling of confusion began to attack her senses. His very voice sent tiny tremors across her skin. It was as if ants had somehow crawled into her veins and were somersaulting in her blood. She had never been so close to a man before but never had she felt so safe. Again his deep voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Where do you live? I just realised I’ve been heading towards Umbar and I don’t even know if you live there."
"You live in Umbar?"
Nadira could guess at his answer but still hoped she was wrong.
"Yes, I live there with my father. I assume then that you don’t?"
"No, I live in Keir. Actually my uncle is the king."
"Your uncle is king Ivor?"
"Yes, do you know him?"
"I know of him."

The silence that ensued made Nadira feel uneasy - what could have happened for the mention of her uncle to provoke such a reaction? She knew that King Baruch and her uncle didn’t get along, but hadn’t realised the bitterness had seeped into the two kingdoms as well. Just as she was beginning to feel hot and slightly panic-stricken, she felt him gently take her hand in his. Something in his touch silenced the rising blush creeping to her cheeks. As they rode on, she felt herself relax and begin to notice the beauty of the woods around her. Usually she rode so fast her view of the land was a blurred mass of colour. Now she noticed the bird nests carefully sown amongst the branches, and the damp moss lying at the oak trees’ feet. She was trying to decide whether she had just seen a deer or a stag, when a sudden trampling of hooves made her startle. Coming toward her at a fast canter was Alfie, astride a disgruntled and heavily panting Pixie.
"Miss Nadira! Thank goodness I’ve found you, your father went nigh on mad when the damn horse came back without you."
"I’m sorry Alfie, Pixie took a start and I fell. This kind gentleman helped me."

Alfie looked at the "gentleman" in dismay, and after uttering a mumble - and Nadira felt - rather abrupt thank you, he insisted on carrying Nadira home himself on Pixie. She turned to look up into the stranger’s face, wishing she could say something. The ants were sprinting through her veins now and all she could manage was a hopeless silence. Seeming to understand the unspoken words she herself struggling to grasp, he squeezed her hand and whispered into her hair.
"I’m sure we’ll meet again."

Before she could snap herself out of this uncharacteristic dumb show she suddenly found herself in, he was gone and she was left staring at the mud flicked up by his horse’s hooves.

The Banishment
Nadira shook her head violently, hearing the persistent trample of his horse’s hooves in her mind. She wished she hadn’t let herself remember. The fresh air brought in through the open window that morning had stilled. Feeling hot and clammy Nadira lay down on the floor; pushing her cheek against its damp, cool surface and willing the memories to leave her alone. Yet again her strength failed her and this time it was her father’s enraged voice that disturbed her wandering thoughts.
"How could you betray your family this way Nadira, for a young man you hardly even know?"
"Father I do know him and I know that whatever Uncle Ivor thinks-"
"What, you think your Uncle is wrong? You think that you know better?"
"I don’t mean that I know better, but I know Leon and if you gave him a chance you’d-"
"You’re nineteen years old, what do you know about men? Do not try to interrupt me again Nadira. I am your father and I forbade you from seeing him."
"I love him. I had to see him Father - I’m sorry."
"You’ve gone against my orders - all those weeks - lying. Against the wishes of your uncle, Against a King Nadira, and that is no small matter. You will stop seeing that man or Lord forgive me what I must do."

Tears tickled her cheeks and she shut her eyes tight, wet eyelashes dusting the bare floor, struggling to forget the rest of that horrible day. Her father had ignored her pleas, refused to even meet Leon himself. It was then that she had let slip their plans to marry. She hadn’t meant for it to come out, but somehow the words had escaped from her mouth before she had even felt them on her tongue. Her father’s fury had erupted - a tirade of accusations screamed that she was a traitor. She had been cast out. A servant packed her things and within hours she was bundled into a carriage and driven throughout the night to the tower. Believing in her father’s love she had waited for him to realise his mistake. She had waited for Leon to search and find her. She had waited…..

An Escape
The days passed, and with them came the spring. Nadira woke from fitful nightmares to sunbeams dancing on the tower walls - urging her to join in their joy. Birdsong filled the emptiness of her prison, and even the water she hauled up from the well tasted somehow fresher. Slowly her tired body began to revive. Each week she felt herself grow stronger, like the sunny daffodils outside her window - poking their heads up from their earthy beds to display their colourful petals.
One particularly warm morning - noticing she had run out of water - Nadira began to descend the winding, stone staircase to the well at the tower’s basement. As she walked past the oak door, heavy metal bars in place as usual - blocking from her the world outside - she noticed something strange. At the foot of the door in the right hand corner was a small hole; probably a mouse had gnawed its way through she decided. However on closer inspection, she saw that in actual fact the wood was rotting away. Further up the door splintering gaps were appearing too. Nadira held her breath in desperate hope, and gently applied some pressure to the door’s rusty hinges. The wood began to sigh and the hinges seemed loose. Leaning harder against the door she felt the wood beneath her give slightly, and in a joyous panic she began to throw her weight at the door with all her strength. After several attempts she had to rest, her arms were grazed and some splinters had nestled their way into her skin, but she was so excited at the thought of seeing the sky and touching the grass, that soon she was battling the heavy door again. It was definitely weakening, but after a whole day of resting and pushing she had to give up.

At first light Nadira was running down the steps and again throwing herself at the stubborn door. After four days of repeating her efforts, she told herself that it wasn’t going to work. Forcing herself to try one last time she summoned the last of her body’s strength, threw herself side-on at the door, and finally it gave way - bursting open with a great crash.

Nadira stumbled forward, stopped herself from falling and then flung herself to the ground regardless, kissing the dewy blades beneath her in sheer delight. Jumping up she ran, tears streaming down her face and screaming at the top of her lungs. She was free. After months of longing to feel grass beneath her feet and wind on her cheeks she was free. Looking around her she suddenly remembered her situation, and her joy simmered down into unease - what was she going to do now?

The Hidden Village
After two days of walking through nothing but fields and woodland Nadira began to grow anxious. As a child she had never been further than 20 miles outside of Keir. The local countryside she knew well, from her rides out with Pixie, but none of her surroundings here looked at all familiar. What was even more disturbing was that she couldn’t see a single cottage, or even a farm house anywhere.

After a short rest - and having eaten the last of the raspberries she’d found - she was at a loss as to what to do next. There were no roads, no signposts and no people to ask for directions. In front of her were more fields and to her left was a rather dark looking forest. Deciding that at least she may find something to eat in the forest, she set off at a brisk walk - hoping to get through it before the evening fell.

It felt like she had been walking for months, not days and Nadira began to wonder if she’d been better off in the tower. Realising the sheer stupidity of her thought she gave herself a stern talking too and carried on walking. A few miles on and she was sure she had gone round in a big circle, when suddenly she thought she could make out a track up ahead. Stepping carefully over some fallen branches, she came up to it - muddy and disused as it was - it looked as if at some time a woodsman had cleared it, for it was big enough to drive a cart down. Clearly however, it had not been for a long while. Weeds grew across the path and dead branches lay strewn at its side. Once though it had been used, so it must have led somewhere and this thought gave Nadira the drive she needed to work her way through the boggy ground. She kept slipping and falling in the mud and most of the berries she’d found in the forest were inedible. Slowly her energy was draining away and just as she felt on the verge of collapse, she thought she heard a noise. Listening closer she heard another sound and soon she was running through the mud, out of breath with excitement. Bursting through a thicket of bushes, she stumbled into what looked like somebody’s vegetable garden. Scurrying around the side of the adjoining house, she walked out into a village square. All along the edges were tiny cottages and here or there was the odd shop.

The sound of bustling life surged through her veins. A woman was coming out of one of the cottages - a writhing ginger cat in her arms. Nadira crossed the square and watched the woman knock on her neighbour’s door, a heated onslaught followed whereby the woman dumped the cat into a confused looking boy’s arms and stormed back over to her own house. Nadira ran over just as the lady was closing her gate.
"Oh excuse me, excuse me!"
The woman ignored her, walked up her pathway and shut the front door with a loud slam. Nadira assumed she hadn’t realised it was she being called and looked around for somebody else to speak to. An old man was coming out of a grocer’s shop across the street and a flurry of people further down the road seemed to be heading for a little church on the corner.
"I wonder why they’re all in such a hurry."
As Nadira mumbled to herself, a mother rushed past her - trying without success - to clean her son’s face with a wet cloth.
"Come on Iwan, it’s the Queen’s coronation today - we need to be in church."
A Queen? As far as Nadira knew there had never been a Queen in all the history of Keir. Her uncle himself had prayed daily for a son, for he said "no woman had ever been a successful Queen." Where was this place, for surely she was nowhere near her home? Passing the grocer’s shop she heard the shop keeper call back the old man.
"John, you’ve forgotten your apples."
"Ah thank you, no doubt I’d forget me own head if it weren’t screwed on!"
"Not going to the church today?"
"No. I was a full supporter of Old Ivor. You won’t catch me celebrating a woman on the throne, even if it is one of his daughters."
"Ay I know what you're saying, but the King’s been in his grave these past two months. We can’t be without ruler forever."
"Such a shame his brother was taken too. He would have made a fine King."
"Ay, but they said he was going mad after all the trouble with his daughter."

At these words Nadira stopped listening. Her uncle was dead. His brother was dead. No, they had to be wrong, her father couldn’t be gone. She turned to the two men who were shaking hands and turning away from each other.
"Sir, please, what you just said about the King. You must be wrong, you have to be wrong!"
The tears poured from her eyes but the old man carried on walking, shaking his head sadly. She longed to run after him, tear at his shirt, force him to speak to her, but her body was weak and she leaned against the grocer’s wall for support. She had to get home. Somehow she had to get home.

A surprise encounter
Nadira marched stoically towards Keir. The odd signpost carved into a piece of wood marked her progress. Weary and broken she listlessly managed to put one foot in front of the other. The days and nights dragged on like a waking nightmare. She was back again in the tower. The walls were closing in on her. The spiders were crawling over her skin. She couldn’t breathe. Her body was thinning from lack of food and her mind continued to play tricks on her. She’d hear her father’s voice scolding her for riding too far, or his laugh as he ruffled her hair and told her she was stubborn just like he.

Finally, as the moon shone down upon the tree tops she caught sight of the castle’s battlements and knew she was home. Reaching the palace gardens her body finally broke from lack of food and water and she crumpled with relief and pain onto the grass. The sun’s light touch awoke her several hours later and she heard a familiar, sweet voice speak, yet it was unmistakable tinged with sorrow.
"Poor father, if you could only see what your Keir has become."

It was Bethany, her eldest cousin. She was standing over a gravestone laying down some snowdrops. They always had been her favorite flower - the palace gardener used to grow furious when she picked them. Sighing, Beth walked a few paces to another grave and bent down to replace some dead flowers with fresh ones.
"Uncle, why did you leave it so late to save her?"

Nadira saw the tears on her cheeks and tried to lift herself up to embrace her cousin, to tell her it was okay, that she was here. Yet her voice would not awaken, the words wouldn’t come. Beth moved onwards, still clutching some flowers to her chest. Soon she came to another head stone. No one else, Nadira prayed, please let no-one else I love be gone.
"Why did you have to go and love him? Now everything is lost. What sort of Queen will I be? I have no strength to rule. The war has drained us all."
What war? Nadira felt confused, delirious even. Who was Beth talking to and what did she mean by a war? As her cousin laid the flowers down and prepared to walk away, Adaira forced herself to rise and stumbled towards her cousin.
"Beth, it’s me. I’m back."
But Beth turned away from her, shoulders stooped in silent pain. Thinking perhaps she hadn’t heard her, Nadira tried again.
"Beth, it’s me, Nady! What’s been happening? Beth, please!"

Her cousin walked onwards, up to the castle, leaving Nadira in an aching confusion. Dragging herself painfully over to where her cousin had been standing, she read the slanting words etched into the headstone.
Nadira rose. She rubbed at her eyes, she squeezed them shut tightly. She pinched herself to see if she was dreaming, but the name was still her own. Thoughts leaped before her mind’s eye screaming for attention, yet her body couldn’t take the shock. She fell to her knees, fighting to breathe, and then she heard the whispered voices. Looking up she saw the castle’s cook with another lady she didn’t recognize.
"Such a shame, such a dear shame; she couldn’t help who she loved."
"Ay and her dear father, he loved her. He didn’t mean to leave her there so long."
"I heard it was the fever, me two sons had it also god bless. And when he got to her it was too late?"
"Ay, of a broken heart she went they say. And that was it, all fell away after that. Her father went mad, made Ivor declare war."
"The King died in the battle, but what of her father and the love?"
"Fought each other to the end; both loved her and blamed the other for her death. Even after everything they couldn’t make their peace." Nadira couldn’t focus on their words anymore. Her heart was beating too loudly and she felt too hot. The spiders were crawling towards her, scurrying from the earth by her grave, through her mind and making their way down to her broken heart. There they rested, weaving a tight web around her heart - a heart made for so much love. A heart now broken and empty: finally free and finally home - yet eternally lost...

DEATH BITE CAFÉ

Driving home late one night after a long day, Cindy noticed for the first time an old cafe at the corner of the street where she lived. There was something familiar about the cafe, but Cindy couldn't put her finger on it. She continued on her way home. After having dinner she went to bed, but as she drifted of to sleep she dreamt about the cafe she had seen. She dreamt that she had gone into the cafe and was served by a very handsome man with dark eyes. Suddenly however everything changed and the man in her dreams began to grow old. It started with his hair and then the rest of his body. Cindy started screaming and she got up from her seat to leave. The man grabbed her neck with his wrinkled hands and began to strangle her. Cindy woke up, covered in sweat. She got out of bed and spent the rest of the night looking through some papers she was going to need the next day at work.

At work the next day Cindy couldn't concentrate. She kept on walking around her big well-furnished office deep in thought. Her secretary Harry knocked on the door. "Come in", she said. Harry was a tall, thin man and had been trying to get Cindy to go out with him ever since they had met. As Harry informed her of the appointments and calls she had received, Cindy walked around her office apparently admiring her furniture. "Your mother called and she wants to know why you haven't called her back. Mr. Luther says he wants to see you in his office and if you ask me, that's not all he wants to see you in.", he said. Cindy turned round faced Harry and said viciously, "Nobody's asking you Harry." Harry quickly finished what he was saying and left. Cindy then sat down to do some work but she ended up sitting and staring out of the window still thinking about her dream. Cindy had grown up in superstitious environment and believed that all dreams had a meaning, but she didn't know what to make of this one.

Few weeks later, Cindy saw the cafe again while driving home, but this time she decided to go in. She parked her car and then walked down to the cafe. For the first time she noticed its name 'Felix's Cafe'. She pushed the door open and noticed that there were a few people in the cafe. Cindy realized that it looked exactly the same as in her dream. She also sat down in the same seat. She looked up and the same man from her dream came over to her. The first thing Cindy noticed was that he had startlingly light blue eyes. "What are you having?" he asked. Cindy stared at him for a while and then said she would have a smoked salmon sandwich. She had her sandwich and as she was leaving the cafe she noticed the man staring at her. She walked quickly away from the cafe and to her flat.

That night Cindy had a dream, and it was the same one she had had the night before and the one before that. This time however, when she woke up she got up and looked out of her window. There standing across the street looking up at her window was the man from the cafe. The man who had plagued her dreams for the last five months. Cindy became hysterical. She grabbed a butcher knife from her kitchen and ran down the stairs in her night suit. By the time she had got outside the man had vanished. Cindy was about to go back upstairs when she caught a glimpse of the man running towards his cafe. She followed, her knife held firmly in her hand. As she caught up with him she raised the knife up in the air and plunged it into his back. He fell forward, Cindy smiled at herself. He lay there, Cindy turned him over. She then realized that the person lying in front of her wasn't the man who worked at the cafe. This was just an old man. Cindy heard sirens: the police arrived at the scene. They arrested her. She found out later from them that there wasn't any cafe near her flat and that the man who had taken control of her life for the last five months didn't exist.

Cindy Nightingale was sitting in the defendant's room in the County Court. The door in front of her opened and a man entered the room. She stood up suddenly, wrenching the handcuffs that tied her to her chair. The man was her lawyer Mr. Tyler. "The jury hasn't decided yet." he said as he sat down. Cindy looked around the room and her eyes settled on the woman sitting opposite her. She was also handcuffed. She had long auburn hair and dark brown eyes. She didn't look like the average prisoner. Cindy turned to Mr. Tyler and said, "She's probably innocent like me." Mr. Tyler looked into Cindy's eyes and said, "Or perhaps not" and for the first time she noticed how startlingly light blue his eyes were.

Someone to Care for

My friend Natalie can't see the point in you. She says that all you do is burp, fart, dribble, grin inanely and emit a series if unintelligible noises. Admittedly she hasn't seen you at your best, but I still think that's a little harsh.
The first time Natalie came to visit you were asleep on your back, gurgling little spit bubbles, a thin strand of drool running down your chin. Natalie just stared at you as if you were a creature from another planet. She made no secret of the fact that she wasn't impressed.
The second time she came to visit you crawled across the carpet towards her and vomited on her expensive new shoes. I tried to make light of it, explaining that it's mainly just liquid and wipes off easily, but she really did look quite appalled.
Natalie likes being a career woman, rushing between meetings in her power suit, clutching her Starbucks Coffee and her laptop. She's never wanted a husband or a baby, but if she could see you on a good day I'm sure she'd feel differently. If she could see the way you clap your hands and squeal with excitement when “Tom and Jerry” comes on TV; then she'd find you just as adorable as I do.
Instead she thinks you're smelly and have a strange shaped head. She looked revolted when I said you like putting your toes in your mouth, and finds it disturbing that you're always staring greedily at my breasts. It upsets her even more when you stare greedily at her breasts. I tried to explain that you're a man and that's what men do, but she wasn't having any of it.
If I'm honest, I think you could have made a bit more of an effort when Natalie first visited our house. I know it was the morning after ablution, but I thought you could have at least lugged yourself into the bedroom instead of lying sprawled on the sofa in a curly wig, a pair of women's shoes and a magazine with a photo of Britney's bare body on the front. If you'd had some trousers on it might not have been so bad. Natalie and I were comfortable enough perched on the wooden chairs, but it was quite distracting to have you snoring over our conversation, and I think Natalie was a bit uncomfortable when you started mumbling and fiddling with yourself.
When Natalie left, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a look of pity before rushing off for an appointment with her personal trainer, I removed your stilettos, covered you with a blanket and wiped the drool from your chin. Later, when you woke up screaming about a pain in your head which you assumed must be a brain haemorrhage; I gently explained that you had simply hit your head on the side of the wooden bed. I then sat by your side, holding your hand and stroking your forehead in a bid to reassure you. Three days later when you had recovered, I firmly reiterated this link between lager and suffering and said I hoped you had learnt your lesson. You looked ashamed, said you wouldn't do it again and then promptly got up and hurt your chin at the very same place.
I'd secretly hoped that things would be better the next time Natalie came to visit. I thought she might like you better if you had your trousers on and were conscious. To be fair you didn't let me down on either of those counts, but if I'm going to be picky then I wish you'd been sober and hadn't vomited on her.
I assumed that when I told you she was coming for dinner you would finish your dinner and a round of nap before ten o'clock, but of course you were too excited of all the colorful lighting and you decided to celebrate with all excited loud gurgles. I understand how important these things are to you, and I do appreciate the fact that you called me from your bed six times with a string of terrible excuses. Instead you fell from the front bed attempting to remove your diaper, addressed Natalie as Bob, crawled towards her on all fours and then chucked up all over her feet. It wiped off just as I said it would, but I don't think that made Natalie like you any better.
Once Natalie had left - which she did at great pace - I cleared up the mess and sat you down at the kitchen table. You clutched my fingers tightly and tried to put one of them in your mouth, mistaking it for the digestive biscuit I offered you. I should have been furious, but when you grinned stupidly at me, your mouth surrounded by biscuit crumbs, my heart softened and I forgave you. At the end of the day, however badly you behave, you're mine and I love you.
I can understand why Nathalie thinks you're an idiot, but it's easy for her to judge. She already has everything she ever desired. I never wanted the impressive job title, the sports car or the big flashy house. All I ever really wanted was to be a mother. You might not be the most sophisticated man in the world, but you have a good heart and all the other necessary parts to help me fulfill that dream.
I know exactly why having a baby is so important to me: I want someone I can take care of. I find it incredible that another flailing, helpless human being could rely on me to look after. Babies are so utterly incapable of looking after themselves, so dependent on others for their wellbeing. From their failure to control their bodily functions to their inability to use their tiny undeveloped brains, they are so completely useless without someone to care for them. I want to be needed like that.
Natalie says, “I don't need a baby to fulfill my dream. I’m already there.”
I have no idea what she means. I just don't think these career women understand.
Being a mother is striving to be a true reflection of God, so that your child will look into your life and know love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self control and to never give up the fight for what you believe in. Mothering is protecting, nurturing, teaching, and loving. It is a sacrifice~it’s pouring youself unselfishly and unconditionally into the life of another.

Enjoyment

In how many ways you may roam round

At long last

And unfailingly

You have to reach your nest.

In how many times you may wet your eyes

Today or tomorrow

You must necessarily

Wipe the tears.

So I stoutly advocate you

To learn the ways to realize

And not go on ruminating

them all the while at all times.

As long as you moan

The whole world appears to be in despair

If you culminate in happiness

Greenery gets pinnacle space in your thoughts.

The agonies won’t get brushed off in seconds

So let us sound silence only in all their whimsical tunes

Repentance need not be mixed with ways of penance

So heartfelt joys can only be celebrated by experience.

Yearning

I unfolded my arms

aloft desperately!

Yearning to hug

the ethereal blue sky,

where I can shed

the fragments of

my constructed being

and let it scatter

into the unrelenting expanses

of distant horizon

like myriad stars,

which no human can ever number.