Love Letters

I was home with my parents about ten days ago. Unfortunately due to work, I hadn't been able to spend Christmas with them, so I was eager to get back as soon after as I could. They were very happy to see me but I missed out on all the festive cheer, as the decorations had been boxed up, ready to be put away for another year. I was giving my Dad a hand to get them up into the attic, when I saw it, peeking out from behind a pile of old school books, a tattered wee shoe box.

To any other set of eyes, it was nothing more than an aging pile of folded cardboard, long abandoned to the darkness, to me, it was priceless.

When Dad wasn't looking, I snuck back up into the attic, and freed my old friend from its confinement. I counted up the years we had been apart and was shocked to find they numbered twenty and more. I lifted the lid and peered inside. Yellowed pages of writing paper, sheets of ruled copy book, ripped from long forgotten school jotters, fancy sheets of coloured velum with roses on the edge, piled one on top of the other. Each of them unique, each irreplaceable, each a memory so sweet, they were like sugar plums melting on my tongue.

I picked one out at random and eased it open. The paper was dry and crisp, not having been touched by human hands for over two decades, but the lettering was as familiar as my own. I knew each line by heart, because I had read every letter a thousand times. The words flooded over me like a wave of memory, stirring long forgotten emotions for a girl that hasn't been a girl for many years.  I remember them all, the letters, and the sweethearts.

They may have been more innocent times, or they may not have been, but they were definitely times where passion burned long and fierce, because nothing in those days happened instantly. As I flipped through my accumulated letters of love, I imagined each being penned on beds never visited, with words plucked from a mind driven mad with longing, re-read with care, folded with fingers I ached to hold, and sealed with a kiss. I held the paper close to my nose and imagined I could still detect the faintest trace of her scent.

Letter after letter opened a treasure chest of memories in my mind. They were not all so tender, now and again came the cutting one, slicing open my young heart with callous efficiency, and the pain ran fresh in my soul. There were a few, hurt and dismayed, at the damage my own heartlessness had caused, and I was ashamed.

When I finished, I tucked my treasures away in the safety of my shoe box. I felt happy and sad at the same time, a feeling only a love letter can cause, and realised this is something the teenagers of today will never have. I'm sure their hearts run as hot as any in my time, but they miss out on so much. They miss rushing home from school, just to see if the postman has been. They miss that juddering excitement of holding a letter in their hands and not knowing what wonders lie inside. They haven't the luxury of reading a heated reply endlessly in the dark small hours of the night, only to rip it up, before any true damage can be done.

Love E-mails, love texts, love skypes, love snapchats, will never fill the boots of the love letter. Some how "I miss U so much. I luv U 4 ever. x x x", just does not seem to cut the mustered. I flicked off the light in the attic and left my memories behind, promising myself that I would not wait so long, before visiting again.

Landing Lights

To walk a lover’s beach, but leave single footprints in the sand.

I gaze upon the starry sky, and reach up a searching hand.

and try to catch that blinking light, ten thousand feet above.

I whisper my eternal prayer, be the one to bring back my love.

Going Under

“As I count backwards from ten, you'll become completely relaxed. Ten, nine, eight, your body feels incredibly heavy. Seven, six, five, four, your mind is drifting into sleep, always listening to my words, my voice. Three, two, relax and concentrate on my voice, as you pass into a state of complete hypnosis. One.”

His voice is rich, warm, and compelling. Going under hypnosis is like anything else, you get better at it the more you practice. By now, I'm a world champ at this.

“Can you hear me Sam?”   His voice is all around me in the darkness, it’s assured, and comforting.

“Yes, Doc,” I say, my words heavy with sleep. I can hear them, but it’s as if they are coming from someone else's lips.

“Are you ready to go into the room?”

“I guess,” comes my sleepy reply. As if by magic, my world is no longer a vast expanse of black velvet. I find myself standing in a dirty grey corridor which stretches out into infinity. I know this place well, I have been here a thousand times, this is the inside of my mind.

“Are you there yet?” the Doctor asks.

“Yes, it’s cold,” I say, feeling my body shiver. I look around at the derelict hospital I have conjured up. The colours are always the same, grey, green, off white.  I take a step forward and feel dead leaves crunch under my bare feet. I think they represent every broken dream and heartache I have endured. I look down and there are thousands of them.  In front of me is the door that I fear the most, the door which guards my deepest secret.

“It’s time to go in, Sam. Nothing can hurt you in there, remember that.”

The door sequels dryly as I enter the inner sanctum of my soul. Ripped privacy screens beckon me in with fingers made of tattered materiel, rusting medical instruments lay scattered carelessly on discarded gurneys, more dead leaves fill the room. Then the smell assaults me, the stench of stagnant water.

“Is the bath there, Sam?”

“It is.”

“Is the water in it?”

“I don’t want to look,” I hear myself say, and feel warm tears on my cheeks.

“You can do it, Sam. Just pull the plug and let the water out. I know you can make it this time.”

I move toward the ancient bathtub, which is filled to the brim with black, stinking, liquid. I can see nothing beneath the surface but a ripple runs across it as something shifts in the depths. I can see the rusted chain entering the water and my shaking fingers close around it. With a yank, the stopper flies out of the bath and dangles over the side, dripping black mucus on the leaf littered floor of my mind.

The water rushes out so much faster than it should, impossibly fast, and my deepest secret is revealed. I look down at myself, lying in the bottom of the tub, a manic snarl on my lips, maggots crawling around my eyes and nose, my teeth filed to razor sharp points. It’s me, the other me, the one inside.

When it's hand grabs the edge of the bath, I hear my scream, inside and out. I grab a rusty scalpel from the nearby gurney and stab myself over and over again. Black blood gushes from every wound, pouring out unstoppably until the tub is full once more and my secret is back in its tomb.

I hear him calling my name, and snapping his fingers, over and over again.

“Wake up, Sam. Wake up.” Click, click.

My eyes open, and he is leaning over me as he has done every Tuesday for four years. “Did you manage to let out the water?”

“No, sorry Doc. I tried, I really tried.” I feel guilty lying to him. The truth is that I let the water out every time, and every time, it’s just like today. How could I tell him that my biggest secret is me, and the evil I keep locked inside? He’d think that I'm mad, like all the rest of them.

“Don’t worry, you'll get there the next time.”

The Man Who Would Be King

Some men are born with a destiny, and I was born to be king.  It’s a position dreamed of my some and envied by most. If only they knew how lonely it is to sit on that gilded chair, dispensing justice with a twitch of a finger.

It’s the only life I have ever known, revered by a nation, constantly under threat, by friend and foe alike. Not a moment of my day is free. Every second is pre-allocated by fawning navies, hearing petitions, signing decrees, meeting important people. There are men locked in the tower, which are freer than me. For years, I dreamed of leaving this life behind, to live quietly, in a manner directed by myself alone.

All night, I have lain in my chamber, my mind busily toying with the day that lies ahead of me, the day a weight of a kingdom will be lifted from my shoulders. When the darkness of night turns pink with the coming of dawn, I rise and dress in my finest robe, feeling the silk slide over my body like a lovers touch, keeping the chill morning air from making me shiver. A serf delivers my morning fare, and backs out of the room, bowing deeply. Despite my internal agitation, I eat heartily. This is a day I wish to savour in full, for no other will ever be the same as this.

At the allotted hour, there is a knock at my chamber door. 

“Come,” I call, and my chief adviser enters.

"Sire," he says, and bows deeply. In the antechamber, I can see rank upon rank of courtiers, ambassadors, and noblemen drawn from across the kingdom. I nod my understanding and rise to my feet. As I pass my advisor, his bow becomes even deeper. I enter the outer chamber and all those gathered bow low and avert their eyes. They are forbidden to look upon the face of the king, for that is who I am.

My robe swishes over stone, polished to a high gloss by centuries of bended knees, and fawning underlings. I can hear the throng following in my wake, but they are silent. The air smells of candle wax and smoke, light filtered through coloured glass, lies across my path in solid beams, dust motes fall and rise on invisible currents of air. In the distance, I can hear a rumble.

With each step, the noise grows until it is like a long continuous roll of thunder. It shakes the ground beneath my feet. I pause at the door for one last moment before stepping out on the balcony to be greeted with an enormous roar from my subjects gathered in their thousands. As the noise ebbs, a voice rises above all and the words “Off with his head!” rings out clear and true. The roar rises to a bloodthirsty crescendo. The hooded executioner shoulders his axe and beckons me forward.

No Small Talk, Just Big Talk.

I don't know if any of you follow the Postsecret blog, I have to say, I love it. Random people, sharing their secrets with the world, anonymously of course. In my mind, this is a really healthy thing to do.

I began reading a new book tonight, called The Girl On The Train by Paula Hawkins. In the first forty pages she introduces two characters, both women, and both seemingly trapped in a ring of silence, with nobody they can really talk to.

As I read, I thought back on all the conversations I've had in the past few days. In nearly all of them, I didn't mention what was really on my mind. Instead, we batted over and back small talk about, well, about nothing really.

To me, the idea of being able to blurt out my deepest feelings, without worrying what the person listening would think, is delicious.

Yes, there are lots of organisations out there to help, but in my mind they are for people with real problems, not just the odd deep thought you would like to get off your chest. This got me thinking about the women in the story again, and how many real people go through life, day in and day out, just wishing they could talk to anyone.

Imagine if there were a cafe somewhere, with a table signposted, 'The person sitting here will talk to anyone,' would you sit there? Or better still, would you walk up and sit opposite the one who did? I have a feeling it might be a very rewarding social experiment, or perhaps someone has already done it?

Well, that is what has been keeping me awake tonight. I'd love to hear what you think, or even your deepest thoughts. if you were of a mind to share them. Perhaps you will take a look at postsecret and see what is lurking deep in the hearts of your fellow man. What ever you do, have fun doing it.

Happy 2016 everyone,

Squid.