Thursday 22nd September

Authors Note

This is the title I have settled on; it was actually an earlier rejected title and although it doesn’t actually have anything specific to do with the story in many ways it is about love, and the lack of it and the need for it and the consequences of love.  Anyway, it is as good a title as any.  This is actually an old story, I wrote it a few years ago but was unhappy with it, but thanks to Word I have been able to save and re-open it and have re-written most of it.  It is unpublished in any form except this one, so enjoy…..



What the fuck did she mean?  Why did she say that?  It can’t be true.  It can’t possibly be true.  She knows it can’t be true.  She must be saying it just to hurt me.  Why did she have to say that though?  And why did she want to hurt me?  She must have known it would destroy me.  You can’t say something like that and not realise the consequences.  She has always hated me though – I don’t know why.  What have I ever done to her that she hates me so?

But I can’t go on like this, I am falling apart inside – I’m just breaking up.  This is too much too much to bear.  I have never hurt like this before – and though there is no blood I feel as though I have been cut to the bone.  I’ve never been so miserable, so bloody desperate before.  And never have I had to question myself like this.  I’ve never had to.  I have never even thought about it before, it was all so simple before.  But now I don’t know.  I don’t know anything anymore.  She has got me so confused. I thought I knew what was happening, who I was, where I was going.  Even if I have been a bit careless lately, stupid even, that never stopped me being me; that central core, the thread of self-knowing that defined me, was always there, clear and transparent.  But I can’t think straight now, there are all these stupid ideas rushing around in my head, thoughts whirling – why can’t I stop these thoughts.

And all this stuff I have taken hasn’t helped; hasn’t helped at all.  I thought it would take me away, help me to forget like it has before, I thought I could escape all of this mess, but it has just brought it all home. Home?  I don’t even know where home is any more.  And now all I can feel is pain, I have this vast plain of hurt all around me.  I am in such pain, such despair and I don’t know where to turn to for help.  There is just no-one I can talk to, no-one who would begin to understand; no-one to take this pain away.  I thought I could handle anything, I thought I would always survive – no matter what shit the world threw at me.  I was stronger than them all.  Fuck the lot of them – I was strong, here inside where it matters, I was always strong enough no matter what.  But now I feel shattered, cracked in two, just broken up inside.  There is a bloody great rip in my heart, and the wind is howling through it, there is nowhere for me to hide from this icy wind that is freezing my soul.  I feel desolate and so alone and I can’t even think straight.

And I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to do.  I am so all alone and I realise I don’t even know who I am anymore.  I am only nineteen for fuck’s sake and I don’t deserve this.  What am I going to do?  What the hell am I going to do?  I can see no way forward; I am lost in this raging blizzard of icy thoughts and can see no shred of warmth, no whisper even of kindness anywhere.  Would it be too much to just feel a touch of warmth, somewhere, some glimpse of hope somewhere; some light at the end.  But all I can see is tunnel, tunnel and yet more tunnel, and it’s dragging me down.  I just want it to end. I just want it all to end.


all good stories start with a romance

It never stopped raining that Spring – or so it seemed to Phil as he struggled with his finals.  Too much rain, too many gales blowing, dampness and wind everywhere, and he was beginning to wonder whether the real Spring – you know sunshine, flowers, all that feeling of hope and new life – would ever arrive.  But the gloom of that perpetual cold and drizzle was finally lifted sometime late in April, just after Easter in fact.

1947 was starting out pretty dull he had to admit, just like the weather; nothing to relieve the tedium, no glimpse of sunshine anywhere.  He had returned home for the holidays, a four week break where he was supposed to finish off his final dissertation, ready to be handed in by the second week of May.  His tutor was always reminding him of the importance of getting it in early, “It is really most important Phillip, you must prepare well.  Bring it in soon so we can revise and work it up together”.  Not that he could possibly interfere you understand, that would be quite unethical, but if he got a chance to see the direction Phil was shaping the thing, he might be able to put a few pointers in his way, help him to find his own path to success.   As he repeatedly emphasised, everyone needed a second opinion now and then.  And of course Phil knew only too well that that would entail the inevitable rewrite of the whole wretched thing, and at that moment he was utterly sick of it and nothing seemed less appetising, come rain or sunshine or snow.