I lay awake and think of you

Looming close and over me

The dread, the pull, the fear

How not to give in to despair!


You come in weakness

You stay when I’m alone

You lurk within the dark

Leaving scars that mark


How I totally hate you

Despise you even more

Wish you a fiery end

No magic wand to amend


But that is not my reality

For you forever arrive

I can not walk around you

Meeting you is what I rue


What or who be you?

Don’t you yet know?

Its the future I fear

And it creeps ever near



R11: Open Season

Open Season by C. J. Box

I reviewed Force of Nature, the 12th book in the Pickett series earlier this month.  When I finished it I was so excited by this author that I immediately got the 1st book in the series, Open Season, as an eBook.  I finally allowed myself to read it tonight.  I also finished it tonight because it was just that good a read.

Open Season isn’t as graphic in violence in the way that Force of Nature is. The focus is on Pickett’s game warden job.  Pickett’s relationship with his wife and daughters is explored and essential to the plot line.  I loved the story of Miller’s weasel, their near annihilation for greed and the way that Pickett’s daughter is instrumental in saving them.

Definitely a keep it and retaining the reap it status.  I will also get this book for my book case when I can.  I still really want to know the origins of Pickett’s friendship with Romanowski, that is the feature of Force of Nature and may lead to the need for more eBook purchases and scouring second hand book shops.

Lamenting Love

Day 2 —Tell about a character who lost something important to him/her.

Louise had been busy all day.  The secretarial pool was buzzing with all the edits of the latest novel to be published.  There were a lot of pages with red marks and the suggested changes that the typists had to implement.   It is odd with this type of work, the typist jumped from red mark to red mark making the required changes but not really reading the work as a whole.

Louise had been working on the first and last chapters, it was a random assignment on who got what part of the work.

Jeremiah looked at her.  

Really looked at her.  

Not past her or through her.

She felt his every observation like a whisper thin caress on her skin.

The words “Jeremiah looked at her.  Really looked at her.  Not past her or through her and she felt his every observation like a whisper thin caress of her skin” broke through her concentration.  She stopped tying and considered what that would feel like.  To have the man she loved or even just the one with her, to actually look at her.

In that moment, Louise realised that in her 50 years this had happened to her.  A man had looked at her like this and that she had felt the cool caress of his thoughts.  It was so long ago but suddenly it felt like yesterday and she mourned the loss of it from her memory as she returned to typing her assignment.

Later than night, in her home with a glass of red wine, Louise looked through her scrapbook from her teens.  She came across a photo of her younger self in a bright red strapless dress with matching high heels, standing on a dance floor facing her dance partner.  The other people on the dance floor faded into nothing but her partner and the look he was giving her, which she could still see in the old photo was a look she had dismissed at the time.

Too much alcohol and the giddy influence of the threshold of adulthood, Louise had dismissed the look and the accompanying expression of love. She had returned home from the dance, packed her bags and left for secretarial school, leaving her dance partner, Mathew, behind. Suddenly, Louise tasted tears on her lips, mingling with the wine as she remembered her lost love.  Realising in that moment what she had lost.

On a desperate whim she rang the number of the house Mathew used to live in with his parents.  A dwelling in their home town from so long ago.

“Hello?” responded a deep melodious male voice.

“Mathew?” she gently whispered back.

“Louise, is that you?”

Author note:

I am not sure I answered the prompt correctly.  My story is more focussed on the loss than Louise who lost it.  I might need another attempt at this.

When being right is just wrong

This is a flash fiction challenge (stories in 100-175 words or less) and each story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Therefore, no serial (continuation) stories. They become too complicated for our readers.



It was all a mistake of course.  A stupid argument, a Mexican standoff that served no one bar the starving cats a last meal.

She had stated she would not move from the kitchen until HE cleaned up the mess he made with his stupid science experiments.  Well, not stated, so much as screamed impotently watching as he just wandered absentmindedly back into the garage.  He had already dismissed her or simply forgotten she even existed.

It would be quite a mess the Police would find, first herself picked clean by their 7 cats and still standing however improbable through sheer eternal aggravation.  Then he, probably in his lab having forgotten to eat or drink in the absence of her nagging reminders to DO any and everything!!

She was just so stubborn and he was just so forgetful.  Long ago they had both forgotten how to live.

(147 words not including title or challenge details)


Ebb and Flow:  Our blogs morph over time, as interests shift and life happens. Write a post for your blog — but three years in the future.


This prompt is perfect for me at this time in my life.

The year is 2018, December 25th and it has been a long day.   I worked Christmas day for a colleague that had young children.  He was so grateful, all the other swaps had been for women with young children, no one had thought that he might have the same yearnings for the day.  I was pleased that over the years I had kept that ability to intuit beyond the normal.

I am 50 now and in a change from 49 years of tradition.  I celebrated my birthday with people beyond my immediate family.  I populated the day with the people that I had made friends with, in the passing of those years.  The 47th year was spent stabilising, the  48th rebuilding, leading to the 49th with the new job and the finding of people to share my life with and theirs.

My job brings me great joy.  I am a librarian in one of the last libraries that still has books in printed form that can be borrowed as they were in the recent past.  To maintain this, we are all authors who only publish in print form.  It is a small but sustained protest against a dominant online mentality.   Music surrendered long ago but book lovers just could not.

Hubby and I still have a menagerie of cats but we have moved house to a single level dwelling.  He has retired, my way of thanking him for all his years of supporting me while I got myself together.  He spend his days working on his model railway, that he opens to the public at the weekend.   And reading the books that he has amassed and kept.

We are happy.  Genuinely happy, not the socially accepted happiness but the deep personal one.  A life time together and only the good remains.  A friendship that blossomed into a love that lasted, unlike many marriages in the same period.  It is all but abolished now, this concept of marriage where you work at it because it lasts and is not thrown away at the first few signs of problems.

I have come to accept my past, live in my present, moment to moment and to wait for my future.  Rather than anticipate or fear that future.  What will be will be.  Living is in this moment, not in the shadow cast by the past or the future.  It is a quiet peaceful life, well fought for and accepted.  Both acts were equally hard fought.  I was never good at accepting, always questioning and fighting.  Sometimes fighting was just not necessary, survival come habit, stretching beyond its true life span.

Physically, I am as I chose rather than was conditioned so long ago.  I have completed my first marathon, I have always been about persistence rather than speed and still compete in triathlons.  My competitor remains myself and my determination to finish and improve.  Other participants in the events are seen as companions rather than competitors.  “Races” are simply a preferred social gathering for me.  Hubby still cheers on the sidelines, still not interested in this as a form of anything but enjoying my enjoyment in it.  He is and has always been my greatest supporter and believed in my ability, long past what I could.

In this moment I am me and I am happy.  What more could I ask for?




As I sit and rest my left leg  
For others help I have to beg 
Pain is an ever present gnaw 
The broken bone just feels raw

I simply do the best that I can 
Even though my face is wan  
I have to daily task prioritise 
With no strength to energise 

My arms ache, my right leg sore   
Not sure I can take much more  
But I blunder on or do what?
How much worse to simply rot

As long as I find ways to relate 
Write my story onto slate  
Then keep going that I will  
Retaining my hope in life still 

Thanks for reading my thoughts 
I am lately feeling  out of sorts   
Writing helps release pressure 
My favourite form of leisure 

Although reading really rates
It and I are long-term mates
Keep on writing for you and me
Over our words friends are we

Some days …


I have this book I work through.  “Live This Book!” By Tom Chatfield.  It is full of activities to orient you to the here and now.  You can write in it and it becomes like a shared journey, with the book recording your stops.  This quote jumped out at me:


It says, ” no one ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and they are not the same person” (referenced to Heraclitus).


I am upset about a discussion I had yesterday with a close friend.  I was trying to explain how I felt and why.  I will not include details of the discussion as they are extremely personal.  I felt one way on a discussion we had a few months ago, with my worry not abated, while they had forgotten it.  My “bringing” it up seemed to make them feel more likely to act on what we discussed than if it was not discussed at all.

I have repressed so much in my life, that I try now to be as open as possible.   I am worried and I know all the reasons why.  Trying to explain it I come out sounding narcissistic, with everything about me.  But that could be because I had not thought about it enough to understand what was happening myself, to be able to explain it to them.

I worry about people that are important to me.  I always have.  I want to make their life better.  In the past that is as far as I would go.  I would certainly not think about my whys and analyse them.  If I thought what I was thinking would upset them I would remain silent.  Maybe I should have been silent yesterday but I wasn’t.

So who is right?  Yes the discussion is about a piece of their life, in the past for them but current for me.  Yes they are potentially mad at me or were when we were talking yesterday.  And yes I am feeling sick about it today.  Put all that feeling aside and what is left?

My thinking is potentially flawed.  Part of PTSD is difficulty forming and keeping relationships.  I could blame that and it does have its part.  But my problem is whether I have a right to my worry about them?  Or are they right that the only problem is me and my thinking?

When you start analysing everything to ensure you are your authentic self, it just gets messy.  I sometimes think how much easier it was when I “hermited” and really only focused on the cats.  But then I would have missed the depths this friendship has provided and offers. I don’t know the answers – do you?

Some days I should just hide in bed.

The relation to the quote is that while the river might be changing,  some of the situations, I find or create, make me think  that I am not.  The same patterns form my thinking and in doing so form what happens.  Replaying them only leads to one outcome and the other person involved has limited opportunity to change that outcome in the face of my patterns.

So if I talk to my friend before I sort this, the same argument will coalesce and the outcome.  I don’t even know if there is a right.  Our diverse point of views are derived in our experiences.   Maybe it just comes down to trust.  Something I am not proficient at.

Thanks for reading.  I hope that made sense.  Please share your thoughts.  I would appreciate it.