Fool Moon
Tonight -
Between then
And now.

The face of the moon,
It’s haunted pallor,
Convinces of mysteries
That lurk between branches,
Between sections of sky
The trees hang leaves
That blow in the cellar
That opened too soon.

A hurricane’s eye.

A man lost at sea
Sees the same moon
As a group of people
Camping in the woods
And the group of people
See the same moon
As the man lost at sea.

And some people walk by.

The sheet of night
Blinks between branches
And clouds
The moon sends a smile,
With a reminder
This is where we met
When you last saw my face
While driving for miles

And now
Between branches
I wish you goodnight.

For Beatrice

I know you are perfect
Yet I know you not.
These moments
Meant so much to me,
These useless fleeting moments.
Behind your eyes
I cannot meet you
But in my mind
I can see you
Whispering softly
And smiling gladly
And I wish
I could be
How I think
You are
When
Love
meets
your
eye.

Gratitude from the barrel's end

Thankyou for my suffering
That hands me to the ground
Thankyou for the broken heart
That stops me getting round
To further hurting myself and others
And ending up endowed
With a reputation that cannot
Be forgiven.

Thankyou for
The damage in my soul
That makes me feel that
I can reach my goal
Thankyou for the time
That I spend alone.
Thankyou for the friends
That tolerate me still.
Thanks. That is all.

Distance, over time

Andromeda seems far away
But you seem further.

Ursa minor seems far away
but I must walk
there and back
before my life is done.

And if walking is not enough
I will sail to you
my stranger.

It may take years
and I may wither
in the interim
but you will know
when we arrive there
as the sun
meets the ground
one last time.

for Wendy Cope

Buses are like women
They're red
and they've got wheels
and it's awful
when you miss one.

wane

We are all born
under a star
mine died
in ninety five
and any light
that meets me now
is the echo
of it's last breaths
as it disappears
into the void.

Morning composition

Is it possible to precipitate
your own destiny? A sail
cannot be raised up when
there is no wind. The road
will wait for you but while
the sky is voiceless days
must be spent in the quiet
waiting of newspapers and
television shows. An eagle
too has a nest. The sun will
rise and set, the moon upon
her orbit show a changing
face. The tide will ebb and
flow before the boat may
leave the shore and a man
must live and work and
eat and breathe and talk
and sit before he finally
leaves his front door. What
love waits for you? That
of a tree meeting the dawn
in a silent forest. What
new hope? Just that of a
soft cloud that unfolds a
form of a solitary lion
leaping out from a grand
blue nothing. Hope, as
a stream in the desert to
the thirsty. And time
is the sad twitch of a
rusted heart that fears
the advent of its final
beat.

why

Something I didn't quite say
---------------------

I am sorry
about your scars


Exasperation
-----------

I cannot begin to write about
the party last night, so
how the hell am i going
to summarise the plight
of every human being and
offer succour from this
bleeding spiritual malaise?


Composition
----------

The mirror in front of me
is gilted with ornate corners.
Within its frame is a
quite splendid chandelier
underlined by a dark wood dado rail
and three photographs of matches
in various stages of ignition
cropped by my diminuitive stature
and the curve of my spine


False/Reactive
-------------

Funny, for someone
with such grandiouse literary
aspirations, I often feel like
I can neither read
nor write.

Moon
----

I bought some records
and a postcard
in Oxfam.

One postcard I didn't get
showed the phases
of the moon

It was mapped out
in a grid and
was so pleasing that

I smiled
and had to show
somebody.

Tonight the moon shines
but the clouds
obscure it

Once, many years ago
I met a man
by a cathedral

He was drunk
and staring
at the moon

I asked
if he was a poet

he said yes how did you know?


BS Elliot
-------

I haven't read the right things
to make impressive but offhand
references and classical allusions.

The fetishisation of the atom bomb
seems like a good phrase
but I can't imagine
what it would mean.

My emotions
do not have notable literary parallels.

I write
in a vacuum
but only a partial one
or that would be
interesting in itself
and may lead to innovation

I write
with the half knowledge
that things like this
are best kept to oneself.

The Quiet Ecstasies of Solitude

I had not seen anyone for four weeks except the postman when he had a special delivery and a Jehovah’s Witness who just apologised and trotted away when he looked into my eyes, which I think may have been glowing.
The special delivery was a food hamper from my mother. She sends one every four weeks because she knows I won’t eat otherwise. I listen to music constantly and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee. Sometimes I look at the ceiling and it moves and shapes form in the white and I can smell them. They glisten and they smell like plastic flowers. One time I read war and peace in one sitting while leaning against the washing machine and washing every item of clothing I had just to hear the hum and rumble and feel the vibrations down my back. Once I drank four litres of water and held it in for seven and a half hours and when I finally went for a piss the surge and electricity of it was so overwhelming that I wanted to cry and shout and laugh at the same time and with the whole bursting heart of me needed someone or something to thank for the pure bliss my body was giving me in this physical outpouring but there was nobody and I was alone so I wrote a letter to the water company explaining my story:

Dear Crystal Water,

After ingesting four litres of your colourless and odourless but oh so refreshing bottled water I had the most magnificent urinary event which my words could hardly bear testament to, however I feel an urgency almost as great as the urgency I fought for several hours to wet myself on the sofa watching the entire Star Wars trilogy and then surfing Ceefax looking at the following days television listings that I must write this letter even though I have no expectations of a reply on your part. It was really the most wondrous experience I have felt since I can remember. It was like a climax. I am sorry if this comes across as crude or otherwise unpleasant but I would actually recommend it for a method of transforming reality, because afterwards I was quite literally transfigured, in so far as my consciousness became a pure eruption of constant and vital being. I hope this makes sense. Anyway, thanks again for an excellent seven hours and ninety eight seconds.

Sincerely,

Adam J Plight


They didn’t reply of course.

Here

Hold this
a hand
an empty bowl

Here
use these
a tissue
the key to a door

Here
speak this
a poem
a refusal

Here
hold this
a pen
your tongue

Here
speak this
an anecdote
an apology

Here
we are

Sentence

With these words
may the time pass
gently, this sentence
is long and may
continue for some
time but inevitably,
eventually, will stutter
towards some kind of
an end, which frankly
will be a relief, yet
I havge noever so hesitated
to draw a full stop as here
in the post office queue with
metal arms as a maze
and enclosure -
waiting impatiently even
though the wait
be a necessity and
I don't know where you are
but if you wished the moment
to linger you would not have
got this far, and
feet tap and
hands clap on ringing bars
as people chatter about
reciepts and stammer
apologies and
this was intended as a
metaphor but has got
off track somewhat, though
things tend to don't they?
and once written
you cannot go back.

We did everything together

All my good times were with you
we never hit the charts but we were smart
and guitars and hearts, we broke a few.

Now that you don't see me anymore
my life has lost it's zest, it's hard to remember
and harder to ignore, those days were the best.

Now that we don't make our sweet songs together
now that we can't be in the same room
now we're jealous of each other

and everything we try to do
while we try our very best to move on
I still want to play all our old songs

and may I say it's hard to take
that what we built up had to break
the night our band split up

In Hope

It's dark in here
but I have a light for you
a blight appeared
in the creeping night
but something still
is true, we live,
we breathe and do,
but for the while we live
and the branches sing
in exaltant washes pleasing
to the gentle ear
that softly hears
a summer song
they sway their way
between the breeze and
fear abides then goes away
tears dry and sighs
allieviate and change
always change
nothing stays
but the remains
of the broken nows
that sit shattered
and hey,
yes, it is dark in here
but your words
can warm a soul
your deeds
fulfil a role
in easing the dread
in pleasing the eyes
in passing the time
until we are dead
and buried soundless
and without breath in us
so please,
believe
that your fight
is important and brave
and the tide of the night
forgot and forgave
so don't be dragged under
and please know
that you have a light
somewhere below
the ache and the mire
and go
be happy
be good
be you.

Ballad

An Example of Stoicism Among the Enemies of our War in the Arab World

Our men went off in quick grey planes
To fight a foolish war
Our men went off to inflict pain
On enemies and more

They battled with strange weaponry
And buried children live
And the enemy spoke stoically
Of blue skies on their side

“For bombs may fall and bullets fly
But if it is God’s will
That for my sins I will soon die
Then take me up the hill”

So by the tree my father sat
And looked across the plain
At wrecked houses and forgot that
He heard the screams of pain

Of citizens innocent as
Much as anyone who
Living within a living hell
Could be expected to

Our men came back battle-scarred from
Trying to protect home
And families watching TVs
Silently alone, spoke

Little in the word of thanks for
The men rushed to battle
Who viewed through a cracked door
Where bones break and rattle

Then came home to not very much
Came home to how are you
Came home to pints on cloudy nights
With nothing much to do

But remember the children’s faces
Seen slumped against the dust
And weep in unlikely places
For weep they really must

Because enemies have no faces
Enemies have no homes
And such far flung places
Can still be called by phone

And the world is surely smaller
Than anyone will know
When you walk among fallen
Tread soft upon the snow

Of days that time has overthrown
That melted and then froze
Night filled with cries of those unknown
Dawn creeping on tiptoes

A Song in the Eaves

In your mother’s house
The oven door is rusted shut
And everything is undercut
By a veil of sadness ponderous
and stitched into the family rug
are dirty footsteps, angry words
that crept in, flew in with the birds
that roost in rooftop hides beak-dug
pecked and furnished with hoarded twigs
to things that grew and things that hatched
and flapped and sang and fed on figs
the family had their eyes upon
and for that theft received a gift
unnoticed, unceremonious, but free -
a joyful song of spring, of sun, of leafy love
of things all one, the lofty dove,
the feral pigeon, the tiny wrens
and all that feed and live and die
and sing and breed, and their hatchlings
sing their songs again
from eaves of houses, leaves of trees
sing their song of spring sun and summer breeze.

So when your days are fading
And your last words are said
When the plans that you were making
All fade inside your head
Remember the face of those you fed
Remember them, your undertaking;
They will walk the earth
Continue in your dragging steps
With your memory in their skin.
They will sing the song you sang,
Louder for you, longer, further,
They will make a nest
To hatch the dreams you laid
Seventy springs ago
And who they are
And what they know
They owe to you.
To your wings.
To your talons.
To the love in your beady eyes.
Remember this
As your bones
Meet the soil.

Greatest hit

I peel open the door and everything becomes real.
My heavy footsteps embarrass me,
Though only the grass notices.
I sit upright on a damp log bench
And feel the wind running through me,
Humming and uncoiling and draining away
With the waves of traffic and treelimbs
Filtering together. Every sound gone
Before it reaches me. The blue night
Holding every orange-haloed streetlight.

Feeling slightly seasick I
Drop my head between my knees,
My stomach turning forwards over itself
Bubbling in my throat but still nothing comes.
I sit up refreshed and stand slowly turning,
Pulled in every direction, so aware
Of the bristled conifer playground smells
And the weight of my own skull,
I look at the grass glistening dully
And feel like tasting it, tasting the soil underneath,
Though it's probably not a good idea.

The holly bush draws me sharply over -
How sharp it feels on my palms I think,
I lean my whole body into it, the tiny spikes
All over my arms and chest, and feel not it
But those little points of myself.
I step away happy and guilty, thinking
Of the people behind curtained windows
All laughing along with the canned laughter,
All weeping along to synthesized violin music.

The shadows grow denser and wider -
They seem to bulge out between branches
And the rocks in the wall, infinite empty volumes
That would swallow you up without a trace.
I close the door behind me quietly.

Inside again the hum of boilers
The ticking of clocks
Lightbulbs burn my eyes,
The overdue sickness welling up
As I climb the stairs to the
Dark landing and step step step
Across the bathroom pulling
On the light automatically, lean over
The sink and feel the oily acid combining inside

And scratching over my teeth then I am
Turning the tap and the water flows through by magic
Washing it all down the drain, and
I swill the lukewarm water in my mouth
And feel it rattling against the cheek walls,
Before letting it fall over my bottom lip and into the sink.
The taste is still in my mouth and I am sick three more times
and I still don't know if that's the last of it,
but I'm bored of it anyway, and lie face down on the bed
with my eyes sweating into the pillow and the curtains rattling.

A series of haiku on the theme of time

Have patience my friend
Repetition turns soothing
After a while.

The hours go slow
Though the days just go faster
Time is overturned.

Each morning broken
Just like the first and basted
With bright song and light.

And all our habits
Hold together surprises
With time’s grey glue.

Appreciate now
I have a feeling soon
They may run out.

Read out by classmate in chapel

The Death of a Celebrity

A great man
To those that profess to know him
A nuisance
To those that did.

Two old favourites

The Bus That Didn’t Show

I am sitting on a bench beside crumpled newspaper
Underneath orange sodium streetlight glow
Filling myself with coffee warmth from a battered thermos
And the sights and sounds of the city.

There is a guy wobbling his bicycle along the road –
A vacant smile smudged across his stubble,
And a learner driver squeaking her mirror
Before driving away cautiously.

I laugh out loud at the concrete left behind
It looks sort of funny sitting there on its own,
But also sad.

I go back to the crossword.

Leaf Collection Therapy

Brushing leaves I feel the rustle,
As each one meets the bristles,
And drags merrily across the patio.

I thank someone for this hour
Of time forgotten and the innocent
Piling of tree debris makes me forget that I am

Here. I am here brushing leaves
Into little piles
And not somewhere else.

Remember performing this emotionally at school

Eyes Like Stars

I remember an incident
When I was ten and a quarter –
A grown up told me knowingly
“These are the best days of your life.”

It seemed so stupid
Grownups have so much more freedom
Don’t have to go to school
Don’t have homework.

I looked up enviously and was surprised.
The eyes I connected with seemed somehow dull.
Frozen almost, and looking further in
A sadness bounced back at me
From those two distant mirrors.
They looked defeated –
Like when you realise it’s time to go home
But you want to stay at the playground with your friends.
It was like that.

Or that’s how I saw them,
But now I would attach a different analogy –
The memory of those eyes are indented
As stars etched in space –
Bright, sparkling but an ancient picture of energy
Outdated by distance, time.
The sparkle is an apparition from years before
The star may now be dead, a black hole.

I thought this was a great pun in 1997

Stream of Consciousness

Still here, and focused, cars drift behind fuzzily – their lights
so soothing on my back – cast a shadow up this tree in front of me – I am aware of my own hand on my shoulder – the arm drawn neatly across – I feel the breeze blowing through me as I stand poised and ready:

No lights now except the stars,

My own internal energies (good and bad) flow

In a beautiful, sighing, arching stream of piss,
Cutting through the darkness
And s p r a y i n g
over my shoes:-
And then for a moment I feel empty and whole at once,
As the last drops run warm down my leg.

poem once sent to competition - theme 'flood'

After

I was the first to emerge…
The first to witness the upturned cars lying on glistening tarmac,
Saluting the sky like rigid turtles,
And all the while I stood amazed in my own road
As I sucked the morning between my teeth.

And as the sun grew,
People trickled from their houses in ones and twos
To see the steam rising off the ground.
Every buoyant face saying;
Thank god we didn’t drown

I really believe in poetry

There is nothing in these words
Bland symbols of shapes spoken out
In the creeping now, how do I hope
To reach you when I cannot reach myself?
The ravine inside is endless and I am at the
Bottom of it. There is nothing in these words.
If I repeat myself does it form a structure?
How through these bland symbols do I hope
To defeat the moment and reach the beyond
When I can hardly hold on to it? The ravine
Is bottomless and I am backed into a corner
And there is nothing in these words.

Short story for Rosie and Dug

A Little Story About Two Splendid Folk

In the mouth of the river tyne, that sways through the North of England, there is a town, a grand little town. And in that town lives a most charming couple of characters, and they are called Rose and Duggy. They struggle through the cold, for it is said that the wind in The North can chill a man’s very soul. Yet they are strong, for in their breasts rest two hearts, pure and bold, that neither cold nor adversity can set into despair.
There are some fine folk there, some they have met and some they are yet to meet. But in The North (as in all places in the big wide world) some bastards lurk. They lurk everywhere, for when they see a decent soul they glow green with envy, and grind their teeth. Over time, these bastards try and grind people down, for bastards like nothing but to see a brave spirit broken. They would work on Rose and Duggy over time, as they would with many of their chums, making them feel bad, making them doubt in themselves and in people. People can be good, when in a mood for sharing and kindness people can be very good. But people can be mean and cruel and selfish, and when that sort of a mood they can be very mean, very cruel, and very selfish. The bastards have forgotten what it is to be kind and to see how good people can be, and they bully and they enslave until the humble folk are sad and don’t know what to do. The bastards will only be happy until we live in a world of bastards, where no-one can trust another person or love them because everyone is nasty and life is empty. One day, Rose and Duggy made a decision. They would make a house together, and it would be a fortress against the bastards, and it would be a haven from the noise and the business and confusion of modern life. It would be a happy place for them, where they can return from a day in the muddle, wearing the armour of hope, and sit and dream. And there they live, in this haven, and their dreams are rainbows that sing with the sunrise, and their dreams are bridges to the future, and their future is the song.

(mis)printed in this year's Ripple

Prelude – Poem for a competition (never sent)

If this poem does not win your competition I will have your legs broken.

If this poem does not win your competition I will commit suicide with a shot-gun in the whitest room of the Tate Modern.

If this poem does not win your competition I will spread sordid rumours about you having an affair with your secretary/school sweetheart/milkman.

If this poem does not win your competition I will begin a campaign of terror, firebombing every poetry publisher in the country, wounding thousands with shards of shrapnel that rip their flesh as the blast burns them and throws them to the ground.

If this poem does not win your competition I will skin a living dog and post its matted hide to you. I will beat a pensioner into a coma with a bag of bones and the collected works of TS Elliot.

If you do not declare this poem the greatest ever written, if I am not hailed as Britain’s New Young Hope, if this is not replicated in every tube train and anthology I will personally expose myself to a priest, then masturbate on the alter before burning the place down and screaming each unholy word I know at the top of my lungs until my voice disappears and I am dragged away to a police cell/psychiatric hospital by a couple of tit helmeted plods/men in white coats.

If this poem does not win your competition I will write an article about how Sylvia Plath is a greatly over-rated and unnecessary obtuse drama queen and her death was the best thing she ever did, and how even the fascist EzrabPound is better than her. I will then eat said article and several hours later shit it into a jiffy bag and mail it to The Guardian with the letters S.W.A.L.K. inscribed upon the back in my own blood.

However, if this poem does not win your competition I will not stop writing. I will enter a new poem, more passionate and exquisitely crafted every year, I will publish them in my own magazines if I have to. I will not stop until we run out of ink and typewriter ribbon, computers and pencils. I will not stop until the earth is a scorched wasteland inhabited solely by cockroaches that scuttle under a chemical sky.

short

I’ll Meet You In The Undertow

Sunlight leaks through the cracks in the blinds, the light pouring through in dusty beams. It’s 7:30 and Mark’s alarm clock is singing a grating pop song. Mark rolls over in bed pulling the pillow over his head. He reaches an arm over and hits snooze.
Silence. Not asleep and not awake he feels his dream slipping away from him, a dream where he was somewhere green, peaceful. A park? He was walking with somebody. A woman. But her face has blurred and disappeared into the mist. He just sees a hand held out, open. Then it fades. He tries to cling onto the feeling, a sensation that he is completely free and happy. He doesn’t feel this very often, but in sleep he goes someplace, a place he wishes he could stay but knows he cannot. His breathing gets heavier, deeper. He drifts off again.
7:35. Rise and shine you’re listening to Buzz FM. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll be with you until 9, taking you to work. Now here’s Sharon with the news…
Snooze.
7:40 And that was the news. Now over to…
Snooze. And every time he hits that button he feels himself slipping further away from where he wants to be. Like a balloon slipping from a child’s hand he floats up and up, into consciousness. Into a world where he has to think his own thoughts, live among other people, work and socialise and fuel his body with food, caffeine, nicotine. A world where he doesn’t know his place but has to try and fit himself in to a baffling and colossal machine. What purpose has he here? What does it mean? How long will he feel this useless and disorientated? Another week? month? year? forever?
7:45. Right time to get up. I’m going to get up. Just open my eyes and pull the duvet back… it feels cold outside the bed, it’s warmer here… come on need to have a shower. When did you last shower? Thursday? I should have had one yesterday it was the weekend. Monday morning, back to the grind. Right.
One foot slips out from under the duvet and towards the carpet, the other follows. A hand pressed on the mattress sheets creasing out. The other hand behind pushing up, body rising, sitting on the bed now, now upright. Okay. Let’s go.
Everything else happens in a blur of routine, dressing gown on, quick steps down the stairs one two three four five six seven thinking about coffee coffee no time to make a pot, bit of instant in a mug. Now in the kitchen a jet of water shooting into the kettle clicked into place, presses the button. Mug. Spoon. Nescafe Gold Blend. Shouldn’t really buy it but it’s what I’m used to and I like it. Twists the lid off, a special treat today, a new foil to break through. Crack. Tear. Wake up and smell the coffee. Opens the fridge and gets the milk, gives it a smell, think it’s still okay, I’m putting it in boiled water anyway so it’ll be fine it’s not going to kill me what if it did? it's not going to don’t be silly. The kettle now coming to life, the water inside rolling and hissing. Toast. Two slices in the toaster. A plate from the cupboard. Kettle’s boiled. Poured into a cup swirling black and specked with froth, milk and two sugars, stir it up, clink clink the spoon against the side of the mug. Pop. The toast is done, two slices of wholegrain and a good slab of butter smeared across almost tearing the bread but not quite. Bit of jam on one, the other as it is. Plate in the left hand, coffee in the right, a little slosh up and over the top onto the kitchen floor as he strides into the living room, sitting down on the sofa, laying the toast and coffee on the table. A sip of coffee. Mm. Eyes up a pack of Benson & Hedges on the table, pauses, snatches the pack up open and draws one out placing it softly between his lips. Sparking the lighter, a quite fizz and crackle as it lights. He inhales. Exhales.
Look at the time! Shit. He stubs out the cigarette, gulps a last mouthful of coffee, charges towards the shower. Turns it on, a hand in cold, warmer now. The dressing gown falls to the floor and he looks at his flabby body in the mirror. How did I get like this? He dismisses the thought, steps in under the hot water. A squirt of shower gel, rubbing the foam across arms, chest, legs. Singing as he rubs the loofah down his back, elbow above his head, somewhere over the rainbow way up high, there’s a land that I dreamed of once in a lullaby. He stops, disappointed with his voice even in the forgiving reverb of the cubicle. Mark stands on one foot and goes between the toes, rinsing and resting them haltingly on the floor being careful not to slip over. He finds himself getting lost in the warmth, closing his eyes. No time for this, I’ll wash my hair tomorrow.
He gets out to the gentle kiss of a warm towel, fluffy pile of cotton against his face. He wraps it around himself and picks up the razor, running it under the cold tap. A squirt of shaving foam on the cheeks, scraping away a few days growth. He rinses, slaps on his aftershave with a soft sting, a new scent he picked out from Boots. Smells good.
Later, fully clothed he is in the car to work. Fed up of Buzz FM he pushes a tape in, a mixture from long ago. As he hears those firsts chords he is back in a different time. He thinks of his mates at sixth form, hanging out on the steps, passing a joint under the sun, the sky reflected blue in a puddle. Sharing dreams, ideas. The optimism of youth. A foot on the brakes, sudden. The car in front stopped for a woman pushing a pram on a zebra crossing. I must pay more attention. He turns the music off and drives on, pulling the sun visor down. Checks the speedometer. 30 mph exactly.
Ten minutes of nothing, the same route he has driven every day. He sees a suited man with a briefcase on one side, a school-kid cycling a bike takes a left towards the town centre. He carries on. His office is situated in an industrial park on the outskirts. A few trees, a meagre patch of grass. His building rising up grey. He pulls into the carpark, reversing with the expertise of routine. He paces the tarmac towards the front door, adjusting his tie and smelling his breath. Did I brush my teeth today?










Hi Rebecca you alright? Yeah fine thank you. Yes it was good thanks, very restful, how was yours? Oh that sounds nice, how is he? Good, I’m glad. See you at coffee time.
Mark sits in his cubicle, shuffles his papers around. Turns on the computer. Emails. One from his brother Tom, he’s buying a new lawnmower. The rest is junk. Penis enlargements, Viagra. Where do they get his details? He deletes them.
“How’s it going with the Marlbrook account? Any progress?”
“Getting there sir.”
“Good. Keep it up. I want the it done by the end of the week.”
Mark opens the spreadsheet and a sea of numbers flash up. For a moment he is swimming in them, his eyes gliding across the surface seeing what he’s done so far, and what needs to be done. Then he starts drowning, the number drift out of focus in front of his eyes. He takes a deep breath, opens the book and starts slowly typing in the information. He stares at the screen, realising he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What is his job again? He has been doing it for years, so why does he feel like a child lost in the supermarket, the aisles closing in under blazing striplights? He stands up and makes his way to the toilet. A stick man on the door tells him he’s in the right place. He notes the crudely scratched smiley face on the sign and smiles back, opening the door.
The toilet is empty. Good. Mark locks himself in the cubicle, feels like screaming. Instead he gives himself a talk. Come on man pull yourself together. You are perfectly capable of crunching numbers in a stupid office. This isn’t beyond you. Soon there will be a promotion. A new car. You’ll be out of the cubicle and into your own space, executive toys on the table, a pinstripe jacket hanging on the back of a plush swivel chair. You are intelligent, capable. He tries to remember the mantra from that tape that he bought in a moment of intended self-improvement, but can’t even remember the name of the cassette. The Will to Work? Something like that. Useless. He flushes, redundantly, but feels somehow purged. He steps out, splashes his face in the tap and strides out and along the corridor, a rag of toilet paper briefly dragged under his half-shiny shoes.
Outside. Fresh air. Yes. What am I doing? I’m meant to be at work. They don’t pay me to go off for a walk. Will they notice I’m not there? Eventually. I don’t care I’m not going back in there. I’m going to get an ice cream.
Leaving his car he walks along the road. It’s a long way into the town, but he sets a decent pace. Mark loosens his tie, opens the top button. It feels good. His shirts are getting a bit tight on the neck but Mark refuses to buy a new one. He looks at the clouds above and it makes him think about his duvet, but he doesn’t want to go back to bed.
Just then Mark hears the merry tinkle of an ice cream van tolling from the estate nearby. He turns the corner walking towards the sound. In the distance he sees the blue and white van. It feels like a sign.
“Alright mate, what can I do for you?”
“One 99 flake please.”
“Sauce?”
“Yeah strawberry. Thanks.”
“That’s £1.20 to you.”
“How much is it to everyone else?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Here you are.”

He ambles along the road, looking at the empty driveways and blank windows. Everyone’s at work. An old man is tending to his flowers. He waters them and pulls a stray weed up with a practiced tug. He turns around and Mark smiles.
“Morning!”

The old man smiles to himself and continues watering. The droplets pour out from the sprinkler in slender arcs. Mark does a little jump and kicks his heels together, chuckling to himself. He carries on walking normally pausing to light a cigarette. He looks at the little mole on his wrist, the one he first noticed last week. He sits on the kerb, the cigarette burnt half down. A hand slides into his pocket drawing out his mobile phone. The battery is getting low. He looks through the menu, skipping down through name after name, pausing over Helena. He reads the letters sounding the name out to himself. It sounds strange, alien. So many times he has thought of calling her, how long has it been now? A long time. With uncharacteristic bravery he presses the green button. The phone rings in his ear. No answer. He puts the phone back in his pocket and walks down the street, sees a footpath and follows it, not knowing where he is going. He takes on a kind of inertia, not speed but a determination and weight to every step which is at odds with how lost he feels.
Walking now by trees, now down another street, he continues. Over a bridge. He is now walking into headlong traffic on the right hand side of the road, cars swerving around him. His eyes scratch along the shrubbery and settle on a stile which he hurdles with ease. The path now muddy he looks at his shoes, the mud caking them, soiling the night black patina. He continues, the road sounds disappearing now, taken over by the rabid gargling of a river, banks full to bursting. Mark realises it has been raining. No matter. He looks at the water, the surface, static yet vital. He walks forward, left foot first, then the right, his feet now submerged, water pours into his shoes and he likes it. Another step, a bit deeper. The bottom is slippery. Deeper and deeper, until completely submerged he lies back and lets the river carry him away, and in the flow of the water he remembers the dream of the open hand.

this was meant to be for mills and boon:

The Sun May Yet Break Through
Kaede Kita

In the cold winter a grey cloud of gloom had settled over Philippa. She had felt down before, but never this bad. Stressed at work and lonely at home, her only solace was her friends. Yet she seemed to spend the whole time complaining and they must have been getting a little fed up of it. Her back hurt constantly and her thoughts were heavy with self-criticism, sadness and frustration. She hoped this feeling wouldn’t last much longer. In the depths she wondered who could lift her from this pain? It seemed impossible.
What happened to those good times, laughing and joking? Where did those summers go, full of colour and light? The springtime of her youth seemed an age ago. Even her dog was moping. Bruno would not eat his food and spent much of his time whimpering and scraping at the front door. Philippa eyed the door too. From her position slumped on the armchair with the radio chattering she looked at the lock and half hoped to hear the distant yet familiar sound of a key sliding in and turning the lock.
This was the same front door Calvin had walked out of and never returned. No real explanation had been offered, just complaints and excuses. Philippa suspected there was another woman, but he had been keeping her at such a distance she barely cared anymore. They used to speak into the small hours. He would bring her gifts of bouquets of flowers and beautiful bracelets, whisk her away to Italy for a romantic weekend. That was early on, in the first flushes of romance. Then came the years of awkward silences over dinner fuelled by piling resentments that collapsed into screaming arguments over nothing much. Then soon after came the retaliatory headaches at bedtime and whispered phone conversations in the study. She heard he’d moved to Canada.
The phone rang. Startled by the abrupt chiming Phillipa knocked over her Chianti and it bled over the pink carpet. For a moment she hovered wondering if there was anything she could do about the rapidly increasing stain then slumped down with a frown. She gritted her teeth and picked up the phone with a deep breath.
“Hello?”
“Hi Phillipa.”
“Sarah. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks. I was actually calling to ask you the same thing.
“Not bad, why do you ask?”
“You didn’t come out yesterday.”
“Well I was pretty tired from work. I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t miss me.”
“Of course we did! We rarely see you these days.”
“Well you know, since Calvin left it’s been hard…”
“It’s been going on longer than that and you know it. I’m coming to see you.”
“Don’t come now. The house is a mess. It’s hard to keep it clean these days.”
“Well, if you don’t want me to come tonight I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Okay Sarah.”
“And I don’t want to hear another word about Calvin. Okay? Tomorrow.”
“Thank you Sarah. I do wonder why you bother with me.”
“Well, you’re my best friend. So sort out the house. I’m cooking.”
“I better go Sarah.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re going to sort out your life.”
“Ha. That’s a big task for one evening.”
“We’re going to try. I’m fed up of your moping. I want to see you happy.”
“I’ve got something on the stove. I better go.”
“Okay. Goodnight Pip. Lots of love.”

After he walked out she burnt his clothes. A big pile of work shirts and cotton underpants blazing in the garden behind the shed. The flames climbed and danced in the cobwebbed shed window. When they had ran out of rooms in the house they made love in that shed, as they had in the autumn leaves under the willow tree and the blanket of soft dusk light. Her mind drifted to the feel of his firm hand on her thigh, his warm breath on her neck. How he would speak her name to her, so softly that it was just for her, but with such weight that she knew she was the only one who existed for him. The memory was almost too much to bear. It didn’t even make any difference that he was dull and balding, she loved him completely and the thought of his name occupied her. The image of his smiling stubbled face made her glow inside, a warm fuzz that brought a wistful tear to her eye. She had loved Calvin since the moment they met but now he was gone forever.
Burning his clothes was supposed to make her feel better about him leaving but it didn’t make any difference. Maybe she was already over it, had even been waiting for it. When he had finally stepped out into the night with a hurriedly packed suitcase of clothes she had washed and a box of stupid superhero comics Philippa felt something akin to relief. A strange, sad and slightly bitter relief. She could do anything she wanted now. All those hours devoted to him and neglecting herself were over. She was free. Yet as much as she tried she could not view the situation in a positive light. Their past was written on the walls of the home she had inherited from her dear mother. That home had been theirs. Cooking for one was never as fun and the domino set that clacked on rainy days was only good for making fragile castles now that stacked up precariously upon each other and inevitably collapsed in a noisy heap. Most of all she missed having someone in her bed to snuggle up to. Another human being to be close to. Now she nuzzled the pillow that his head had dreamt upon and cursed the day she met him.
Yet Calvin was only the final straw. She hated her job. Drudging day by day to the dull orders of a dopey manager. Photocopying and typing. Philippa hated the fluorescent lights that glared above and the computer screen that stared at her impassively day after tedious day. She hated the chatter of her colleagues but joined in enough so as not to get ostracised. She lived for her lunch hour where she would walk to the park and eat the takeaway sandwiches she bought from the shop across the road. Phillipa liked that shop with its soft pink walls and smiling staff. They always had a smile for her and a friendly word, and their sandwiches were the best in town. She could carry them to her spot and watch the swans arch their graceful curved necks against the mirror of the water that reflected the blue sky and sparkled with tiny specks of sun. These moments of peace were becoming too fleeting, and dulled by the fog of misery. Even the chattering of the ducks that used to make her smile inside seemed to grate on her. Something had to change.


Dr James Fischer had been called in early again. He was the consultant psychiatrist at Hope Hospital. Like many who have dedicated their lives to the understanding and healing of the human soul he was rather eccentric, but he was a kind man and very popular with nurses and patients alike. He flipped his brown hair away from over the rim of his spectacles and stepped into the staffroom.
“Good morning all. How are we?”
The usual smiling chorus of “fine thank you doctor” echoed back to him. Cleeve Ward was not by nature the most joyful of places but Doctor Fischer and his team made a point of maintaining a healthy optimism and even a certain playfulness. The suffering of his patients mattered to him dearly but he did not believe it helped to be glum himself.
“What’s the problem this morning?”
“Mr Jones still won’t eat. He says somebody stole his silver ring.”
“I’ll have a word with him, hang on.”

Dr Fischer strolled out. He was a tallish man and had a confidence in his step but a skiing injury had left him with a broken left shoulder that had not reset properly. As a result his head was always at a slight angle, which lent him a quizzical air that was enhanced when he arched his eyebrow. The injury was not in fact his fault, but incurred while trying to aid a novice back onto their skis after a minor fall. While the novice moaned and falteringly pressed his boots back into his bindings a snowboarder rushed down at an excessive rate and was not able to stop. Dr Fischer had taken the force of the blow and ended up being taken down strapped to the back of a snowmobile. He always had time for everyone and cared a great deal for his patients but the constant stress of his work left his brow permanently furrowed and his consumption of strong instant coffee must have bordered on toxic the way he slurped cup after cup between appointments. Psychiatrists retire ten years younger than most other doctors, and the way he rushed about people were saying he’d be retired before his fortieth birthday. He rapped three times on Mr Jones’ private room.
“GO AWAY!”
“Mr Jones, it’s Doctor Fischer. The nurse says you won’t eat anything.”
“Someone’s had me ring. That ring belonged my brother.”
“Well we can help you look for it. But first you must eat.”
“I’m not eating a thing ‘til I’ve got that ring. Not for nobody.”
James Fischer allowed himself a slight sigh. This is what he’d been pulled out of bed for. The man must eat but he was hardly underweight. Yet he understood how demoralising it could be for patients in the ward and Mr Jones had been with them for over a month. After such a time personal belongings became your connection to the outside world and regardless of how harshly it was treating you that was not something to lose. When Mr Jones’ wife had passed away there had been nobody to look after him any more and he was left a broken man. Eventually through continued fear for Mr Jones’ safety on the farm his care-worker had recommended an inpatient stay. Day by day he was getting stronger, and nothing delighted James Fischer more than a glimmer of mischief in a once broken patient’s eye, even if they were sometimes a lot of bother.
“Would you like me to send that new nurse in? She’ll be very cross.”
“Don’t be sending her in. She’s worse than my wife was.”
“You miss her don’t you?”
“Not that nurse I don’t. She never gives me a moment’s peace.”
“She’s just looking out for you. If you’re not hungry you can go to the gym.”
“Come off it lad. Just bring me my breakfast.”

It was a funny old place the ward. In the office they had one of those stickers, you don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps. James had first thought it insensitive but as the years had gone on the gulf between staff and patients was less apparent. Even odder, it had started to feel like home. He had more family here than anywhere else, certainly not where he lived, a bed-sit he shared only with some cacti plants and an aging Labrador that had to be walked at night usually. Basil’s habits were as odd and ingrained as James Fischer’s own and he usually led the walk, expressing his intent for a stroll by nudging the front door at precisely the moment that James put the TV on. Cacti were the only plants he could keep alive. Though despite his lack of free time it was not through standard neglect that they withered but through a compensatory over-watering that bordered on obsessive. Looking after other people took most of his time and energy but it was what he loved to do. What other job could be so fulfilling he often wondered when he was dragged away from another dinner party to counsel a despairing patient. They didn’t call them patients any longer. Service user was the politically correct term. But James preferred patient, because as he always said, healing takes time.



“It’s just taking so long, Sarah. Why do I still feel so awful?”
“I don’t know Pip. You were always one of the melancholy ones.”
“This is different.”
“I know.”
“I’m not just moping you know, sometimes I just… just…”

Phillipa burst into tears. Great, heaving squalling tears. Like an ocean had been building up behind her eyes but had just broken the flood barriers. Sarah put her arms around her, cradled her sobbing friend. Sometimes it’s all you can do. When the crying stopped Phillipa started speaking, first falteringly, then a great torrent, the thoughts that had been plaguing her pouring out in sweeping surges like the tears that ran down her face.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about? I mean what are we alive for? I don’t know. I mean, nobody every really loved me. Not my parents. I was just a burden to them like I am to all of you. I’m useless, pathetic. And I feel ugly. Men don’t look at me anymore. Never. I feel like a big fat waste of space. I used to be beautiful but something changed. And now I just think all the time, how long? How long must I put up with all this? This weight, always on my shoulders, this knot in my stomach. The hurt so deep inside I can’t even tell you where it is. I’m so sad Sarah, I’m hurting. All those men over the years just used me and threw me out like a rag. I feel tainted. And work. It’s awful. I hate that too. There’s nothing in my life, just you, and it’s not fair on you Sarah I know it. It’s just not fair. I’m pathetic.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s how I feel. Do you know what Sarah? I wish I’d never been born. It makes me so sick just looking out in the road. At all the stupid people. They don’t have to suffer like me, just plodding about, drinking cardboard coffee. Going out and getting drunk and being blindly cruel to each other then forgetting about it and doing it again to someone else. Life is just a stupid waste of time. And I’m not playing anymore. All the pain, the wars, it’s horrible. But I don’t care. I just want to get to sleep at night without these awful nightmares. Those half-lit hours alone burying my head under the pillow, willing sleep to take me, hoping not to wake up again. I feel like screaming, I really do.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying this. You’re going to make me cry too.”
“It’s alright for you. You’ve got Mike and the kids. You have an important job. People respect you. It’s always been like that, even at school. All the boys loved you. I’m going to be left on the shelf. And you’ll all forget about me. Just get out Sarah I’m moaning too much. I’m sorry, really I am. This is why I don’t come out. I’m no fun anymore, just this horrible person. I must make you sick.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m tired Sarah.”
“You’re okay. You’re just in a slump. Things will get better.”
“What if they don’t?”
“You battle on. Bravely. Until they do.”
“What if this gets worse? I can’t go on like this. I can’t see a future.”
“I don’t know what to say.”

This was the first time Phillipa had said any of this out loud. For a long time she had felt the weight of her loneliness, but it was more recently that the light of hope was dimming. She felt ashamed of herself for feeling this way. The moments ground by, the clock ticked haltingly. Through the blinds light slanted in catching the dust that hung in the air. Sarah caught Phillipa picking at a scab on her arm. First it looked like an oven burn, but at second glance it was too thin. A long cut that couldn’t have happened by accident.

“Pip, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I’m here for you, but I don’t know how to help. We’re going to make things okay though. I know you can get over this. We’ll beat it together.”
“How?”
“Somehow.”


“Good morning Vicki.”
“Good morning Doctor.”
“Could you tell me what I’m meant to be doing today?”
“Of course. Did you sleep last night? You look exhausted.”
“What, more than usual?”
“About the same.”

Vicki was James’ secretary. Organised and with a jolly temperament she was the glue that held his team together. Without her he would be lost, as she was fond of reminding him, and for which he gratefully acknowledged even more often. James was an excellent psychiatrist, the best that Hope Hospital had, perhaps ever. His patients all loved him and he led them through their problems with sensitivity, understanding and intelligence. Somehow organising his own life seemed to be another matter. He was almost neglectful of himself, forgetting to eat for hours on end. When it came to when appointments were and attending meetings Vicki was a lifesaver. Beyond all that, she doted on him. They always carried themselves professionally but her affection for him was obvious. Not that his scattiness didn’t irritate her ever, but she put it down to his mind being occupied with the many patients on the ward. Sometimes she wished he could just forget about it for a few days and take a holiday, but they needed him. And in a way, she felt, he needed them.