Almost Alone (a drabble)
"Abigail."
Her name was a barely audible whisper. Impossibly, she felt cold breath against warm neck; goosebumps were born the exact moment her comfort died.
Eyes locked closed and breath seized in her chest.
Such was the shock of fear that she didn't even notice the shampoo sting.
Logically, she knew that the bathroom was filled with hot steam, yet her skin was prickled by cold breath.
She remembered the door was locked tight.
She hoped that when her eyes opened, she'd be alone.
Stiffly, she rinsed, and looked, and was.
Almost.
Another whisper, her other ear.
“Abigail, come play.”
Empty
I'm feeling a loss of hope that true friends actually exist. I am being completely ignored by someone that was my best friend for almost six years now. I don't want to keep getting tossed around like a rag doll when I've treated him like my master when I'm a dog. I just want to talk to him and tell him that I don't want to keep getting hurt and I don't want to be friends with him, but he acts like I don't exist. I know I shouldn't be wasting my time but the thing is that he is still keeping me awake at night until 5am when my sleep medicine actually kicks in. Remembering all the memories and the fun we had together is wasted and gone. I thought things would change but in reality people stay who they are, and he happens to be the one who knows how to hurt more than help.
Never Admit It!
Eenie, Meeny Miney Moe,
Esmeralda is a hoe.
She likes to holler,
let her go,
Give her money,
let her hide.
Don’t ever let her
come inside -
common sense
true and tried .
Open your door,
kick her outside.
Don’t tell your wife,
she won’t abide -
say it’s not true
everyone lied,
if you want to
keep your bride!
Alone is Not Lonely
Lonely
Pale lemon sun chaperones obscurity.
standing on sidelines watching, while
others bide time smelling the roses
but I am unable to unpack
trappings of my emotional baggage.
Solitary moon meanders around me
as I trudge miles in my despair,
loneliness mutilating my soul.
Vertigo of night strikes without caring
as I stumble on precipice with tears
thrashing my throat in delusions.
Alone
Whistling alone, I stroll down the street,
reflections of life flow in silver streams.
Reaching out to touch damp soothing rain,
roaming freely from all cares of my world.
Waking early in morning to ride sunshine,
tide of inner thoughts in esoteric spirit.
Feeling the space around me in whispers,
standing alone in my own footsteps.
Savoring the taste of enveloping silence,
breathing deeply to unlock my universe.
Watching others walking on by, leaving
me alone in lulling reveries to explore
blossoming meditations of a dreamer.
Corrupt Leaders
Worship me,
Worship the powers that be
Believe in my distortion of reality,
Help me muddy the waters of truth
That way
Even the most knowledgeable among you
Can’t tell the difference between fact and fiction
Worship me
Worship the powers that be
Spread my lies across the land
Never question me
Treat me as if I am God
Because I am God
You are abandoned children
I am your holy father
Now come receive my blessing
Worship me
Worship the powers that be
Believe in my distortion of reality
And All.
Shall. Be. Yours.
George and the magic library – excerpt – aboard the pirate ship
George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.
He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.
‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.
Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.
George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.
‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.
‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’
One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.
After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.
‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.
‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.
His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.
‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’
All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.
‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.
All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.
‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’
Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’
George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.
‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.
George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.
‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.
The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.
‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’
A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.
‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.
He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.
‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.
He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.
‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.
He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.
‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.
Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.
‘Let me see that,’ he said.
He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.
‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.
George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.
‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.
George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.
*
George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.
Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.
‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.
He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’
‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’
The captain nodded.
‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’
His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.
‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.
’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.
He looked back out towards the sea.
‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.
‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.
‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.
‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’
George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.
*
The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.
The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.
George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.
In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.
There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.
Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’
It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.
Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.
*
Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.
George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.
‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.
This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’
‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’
‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.
George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.
‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’
Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.
‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’
He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.
‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’
George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.
‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’
‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’
They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.
‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’
Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill
Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.
Age Range: 11+
Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+
Author Name: S J Andrews
Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.
The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.
Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.
Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.
Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.
howl
in the wake of our discussion,
we hurl insults like grenades,
like bomb vessels bursting, a
face-off at opposite corners
of the room, and rage rends
the air, lends the atmosphere
a note of storms clawing at
our beached bodies, a volley
of venomous spray, when you
tell me that everything i do is
mediocre and i retaliate with
the observation that nobody
likes you, you are friendless
and alone, always, then you
scream, you stupid cunt! and
the windows shudder with the
volume of our passing—please,
love, don't remember this, i
walk
towards you now,
closer and closer
with my mouth hanging open,
my mouth is a black hole
growing,
a maelstrom that
shatters my face apart,
a hole from
which
my howl
emerges
coming up to
find you,
grind you, it rises
from the crouched ladder of
my skeleton,
a furious noise
obliterating everything,
it swallows up
your voice
and erases
your words
Later, Chris.
Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight.
Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.
In Rome no one cares who you are.
Quite a beautiful feeling.
Rome is different.
Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection.
But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome.
I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen.
This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?
Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family.
Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.
Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs.
Outside it's grey and bright and warm.