Whispers and Wanderings

Now 4.30am, I have been awake for the last couple of hours just writing and listening to the sounds of the night. The Met office website quotes windspeeds of around 25mph, so its a breezy night outside my bedroom window and there has been plenty to hear and to write about. So if, unlike me, you managed the recommended 8 hours sleep, this is what you have missed. NO SLEEP TONIGHT     No sleep tonight. The weather has claimed the hours of darkness as its own. An angry wind roars outside my bedroom window. An invisible energy twisting and turning through the dark. Tiles dance on the  rooftop, lifting and falling like piano keys being played by an invisible hand. Rafters sway - a solitary slow dance above my head, as fat drops of rain beat steady rhythms on the window. It is a symphony, born from a storm, playing only for those for whom the night refuses rest. Curled up snug and small on the bottom of my bed, the dog lies half asleep, half awake, listening to a worl...

When I am feeling down in the dumps and stuck in a rut, I try to remember that even in the worst moments, small sparks of love, resilience and gratitude can emerge. These reminders help me to see that life, with all its highs and lows, can still hold unexpected beauty and hope. This short poem is my comment on those times. A TENDER TRUTH  That life is ironic is strange yet true, It takes a storm to see skies of blue. Sadness must touch the heart so deep. Before we cherish  the joy that we keep. The noise must rise, so silence speaks, Absence lingers, love it seeks. But in the end, we come to see, Life’s greatest gifts shine endlessly.                                                              

This is a story about the things we fear most when the night falls and the world goes quiet.  The Uninvited  is inspired by a series of weird dreams and a very real moment in my life. One that I will probably never forget.  I’d just come home from hospital after being taken ill from work and was meant to be taking things easy. It had been a lazy day and I wasn't sleepy, so I was sitting up in bed with only the light from my tablet keeping me company. It was 2am and I was about to settle down to sleep when I heard noises downstairs. At first I thought I was hearing things but it soon became apparent that I had an intruder!  At this point I have to confess that I had failed to lock my patio doors. I know that an unlocked door does not give anyone the right to come into my home without an invitation but I do feel more than a little foolish. Anyway, believe me when I say that I will now always but always check my doors before going to bed!  Happy reading! THE UNINVI...

This story is dedicated to Lesley O, and also to anybody who has ever hugged a tree. The idea first seeded itself during a Sunday morning walk through Astley Park, long before COVID. A passing conversation about what the aged trees must have witnessed during their long years sparked my imagination, and I remember saying, half jokingly, that one day I would write a story told by a tree. Lesley, probably won’t even remember that conversation - she was politely bemused by my ramblings at the time (and also in mild shock after a rogue swan chased us away from it's nest). With the environment being such a concern and the value of life, in any form, seeming so cheap, I wanted this piece to be "of its time" and to reflect the world as I see it today. So, with ideas from The Secret Lives of Trees, the quote which follows by Cristen Rodgers and the influences of countless magical trees from childhood, what follows is, in a small way, a completion of that conversation. "Listen...

This short story was my latest piece of “homework” for The Chorley Creative Writing Collective. I didn’t make it to the meeting to share it with the group, so I thought I’d share it with you instead. The brief given was to "write a story about your first experience of an illicit substance.” Mine began as a memory of my first puff on a cigarette, but as the words came, it grew into something else - a small coming-of-age tale, full of awkwardness, rebellion, and bad hair. As clichéd as the following narative may be, I hope that it makes you smile. Researching 1981 (the backdrop for this story) took me back to the days of MTV, my first CD player, the epic Texan soap opera that was Dallas and also, who can forget the wonder of shoulder pads and stone-washed jeans! I hope you enjoy my little story. Perhaps, you'll recognise something of yourself in it, or that it will raise a wry smile? If not, please feel free to join me in rolling your eyes at my 11-year-old self! BACKCOMBED HAIR...

Barefoot in the cool August grass, my nightshirt brushing softly across the tops of my knees, I stand beneath the waxing moon, waiting for the annual Perseids display. The hands on the clock have passed the witching hour. The day is in its infancy but, other than a few ghostly grey patches where wispy clouds sit, the sky is black. Nothing happens. My neck stiffens as I crane to peer into the darkness, so I make my way to the garden swing, sit down, and recline against the metal frame. Staring at the sky, I am sure that I see flickering flashes of light behind the clouds above my head - is that the meteor shower, or just my imagination? I can’t be sure. The swing creaks as I shift, metal digging into my shoulder blades. I stand, cross to the centre of the lawn and flop down. I lie on my back, arms spread wide like I am making a snow angel. A small laugh slips out, as I imagine my neighbour looking out of the window, the glow of their room behind them, and me, the madwoman in nightclothe...

A purple bruise spreads across the sky, which had earlier shimmered blue in the warmth of the morning. A storm is brewing and Georgia watches as the leaves at the top of trees shiver in the wind. She hears the creak of the fence as it gently sways to and fro, and feels a splash of rain hit her bare shoulder. A trail of water makes a rivulet down her arm, but she does not move from her seat at the garden table. Distracted by movement, she turns her gaze to the bird table and watches as two visiting blackbirds help themselves to what remains of the seed placed there earlier in the day.  On the fence, Reggie, the local ginger tom. is also watching them closely, probably waiting for his chance to pounce.  Briefly, the sky is filled with a silver light, which is followed almost instantly, by a rumble of thunder. In a flash, Reggie leaps from the fence and, startled by the sudden movement, the blackbirds take flight, leaving Georgia alone with her thoughts. In pensive mood, she chew...