tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16112924514020080872024-03-16T15:26:03.371-07:00Laura's LovesLaura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-86034959925200216582023-03-04T09:33:00.002-08:002023-03-04T09:37:45.567-08:00Covid, Children and Education – What’s the real cost?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGSm9JIMXKd1I_-TOLdkB3OEgayr6tlh1CkrXZStvhNLKwKsqJH9fHKF-FK-g7lPnmCBmaxg2h6L8WCslyQQQTiLeMGkGyryneZLyzWiyrepJChfjp3bAJK7eeReIpGaqXbw76rmeaNIa83FN-yKa6IJikv96ZD09ZfIvgoF6QPnPQ-4h1Bqb48BU/s662/sad-child-portrait-e1543843650998.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="662" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGSm9JIMXKd1I_-TOLdkB3OEgayr6tlh1CkrXZStvhNLKwKsqJH9fHKF-FK-g7lPnmCBmaxg2h6L8WCslyQQQTiLeMGkGyryneZLyzWiyrepJChfjp3bAJK7eeReIpGaqXbw76rmeaNIa83FN-yKa6IJikv96ZD09ZfIvgoF6QPnPQ-4h1Bqb48BU/s320/sad-child-portrait-e1543843650998.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Life at the height of the pandemic
was difficult for everyone due to the high number of things – and people – we had
to sacrifice in order to follow the ever-changing rules. Cast your mind back to
daily updates, graphs showing death tolls and dire warnings to stay away from
one another. In the midst of that chaos were young children who had recently
started school, but were then suddenly forced to stay away for months at a time
in lockdown. Children of all ages struggled, and as they returned, there were
gaps in learning across the board. Recovery curriculums were in place, informal
assessments to see where the children were at, with mathematics being the most affected
subject.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Though, it’s the other side of the
coin that I have found to be the most worrying factor. The global director of
education, Jaime Saavedra, called it “the largest simultaneous shock to all
education systems in our lifetime.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The most critical brain development
is experienced between the ages of 0-5 years. During this crucial time, the
brain develops more than at any period in a person’s life. The quality of
education and early experiences are paramount as they greatly shape the child’s
ability to learn and succeed for a lifetime, and this particular set of
children were apart from friends and the school routine they had settled into,
having a noticeable effect. Teachers have commented that the impact of the
pandemic on reception pupils had been larger than anticipated and are still
being felt by pupils, staff, and leaders to this day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">There has been a vast increase in
pupils with poor mental health and well-being; a surge in referrals being made
to outside agencies, all now with longer waiting lists. Children have struggled
with peer interaction, poorer behaviours, school readiness and attitude to
learning. The pandemic has hindered opportunities for children’s language and
communication development. Even physical fitness has suffered, as children missed
PE and general physical activity, some returning to school unfit, more
overweight and lacking in stamina and resilience.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">There was much anxiety around catching
Covid and some children sadly being affected by grief after the deaths of
people close to them. An After School Club employee painted a bleak picture
indeed of the bubble system, with toys being hid from sight and all they could
have was a sealed pack of pencil crayons and some colouring sheets. Bouncy,
fidgety reception children spread two metres apart, told not to touch anything
and remain seated at all times. It’s frankly unsurprising that such draconian
rules set upon four-year-olds left them confused and distressed. I’m not
playing a blame game here. School staff were merely following the protocol, but
at what cost to our young children overall?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The reception children barely had
any reception time, missing vital milestones of social and emotional development.
They were not prepared to begin Y1, which is less play and more structured
lesson work. All of the year groups seemed younger than their predecessors with
acting out and immature behaviour, because they hadn’t had the opportunity for
growth and a natural transition.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">In turn, the year group moving up
to take their reception places were in the same predicament, as they too
experienced interrupted nursery provision. These children were expected to be
ready for these changes. But they were not, because how could they be?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">What has been thoroughly sad to see
is that the SEND children, and the disadvantaged, have clearly suffered the
most. They need a lot of extra support on a daily basis, and they had a long
and lonely period without the structures in place that they have in their
schools. When remote learning was born, it was a tricky time for both pupils
and parents. The gap grew wider as disadvantaged students struggled to flourish
without devices and technology which families simply could not afford. Children
with learning barriers no longer had that expert 1:1 supporting advantage. It had
gone. Parents tried their best, but we’re not all professional educators.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">I spoke with both school staff and
parents as I was writing this story, and their struggles were real and a
universal truth across the board. Staff have received extra training since,
with mental health first aid and how to appropriately handle a child in crisis
at the top of the bill. They are learning about pupils who have experienced
trauma, because they need to. Personally, I think it’s a great and positive
step forward, but it also highlights the true and, sometimes, lasting effects
that the Covid-19 pandemic has really had on these children, aside from being
behind in phonics and mathematics, there has been a deeper cost, a sadder one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Primary School Teacher: “It’s a
travesty really. The stresses of that time were felt by those developing minds.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">A father: “My daughter was in
primary school when Covid happened, and it impacted her. It was a very
difficult time for me and my family. She was upset, reserved, and scared. I was
very clueless and helpless.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">School Support Worker: “The
constant mixed messages have confused the younger children. Be kind and share /
don’t share. Don’t touch. Quick, let’s sanitise your hands. Some children
returned self-entitled after lockdown, quite forgetting the rules, patience,
and manners.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Reception teacher: “Sadly, there is
a stigma attached to trauma, and parents are reluctant to admit their child is
feeling that, but many are after Covid.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">As I am writing this article, Matt
Hancock’s WhatsApp messages have recently been leaked and everything Covid is
back hanging heavily in the air once again, with questions being asked with a
fresh scrutiny. I’ve been reading through the disagreements between ministers regarding
the subject of the school closures at the time. Schools opened for one mere
pointlessly distracting day because they couldn’t make their minds up, couldn’t
stop dithering and ending up making a ridiculous U-turn. To say that children,
school staff and parents have ben messed around is a huge understatement. As ministers
quibbled and verbally threw teachers under the bus, more and more children were
lost and dazed in a system that couldn’t be there for them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The stress and anxiety placed upon
the teaching profession has been absolutely overwhelming. The sneering comments
made by Matt Hancock and Gavin Williamson are reprehensible and degrading. Who has
been there to pick up the pieces for our suffering children? As teachers take
further strike action in the coming weeks, I hope people remember the true
sacrifices they have made.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-2882105020811849232023-03-01T16:11:00.003-08:002023-03-01T16:23:46.739-08:00Spooky Sheffield. Take a look: Bunting Nook.<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was asked to write a horror story, a work of fiction that
would best represent my part of the world. Being Sheffield born and bred, and
proud of our great city, I researched local ghost stories and tales of
folklore, only to discover that right here on my doorstep was one of the most
haunted streets in the country, by all accounts. Frankly, I was overjoyed. Once
I started looking, there came a flurry of stories connected to Graves Park,
especially in the vicinity of a curious road named Bunting Nook.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I weaved a fantastical, creepy tale of a phantom carriage, a
weeping child, a black shuck, a green mist man and a forlorn grey lady. I read
it aloud, with gusto. A performance on Twitter spaces. Writers from all over
the globe listened to my piece about my patch of S8. I received excellent feedback,
and I should have been feeling on top of the world, except that I had this
nagging sensation of being somewhat of a charlatan. I live here. I had written
and read the story. But I hadn’t actually done that walk myself. I was
determined to get up there, under the veil of February darkness, just as soon
as I could convince one of my teens to accompany me. There was no way on this
planet that I was going up there alone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, armed with my phone for random photographs, a voice
recorder (because I’ve watched films) and a (terrible) torch, off we went. We made
the foolish mistake of taking the short-cut up the never-ending, sleep slope of
Cobnar Road. The pain in my calves was perhaps more evil than anything I might
see or hear up at the top. We turned the corner on to Bunting Nook and I took a
moment to recall the sorrowful story of the Broken Neck Lovers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQRUl7-Q5hE9ktIjj0HrYaLcL5bR0NysJwH-z5aiDVrAonwLqAfmjtisM-kNffbm43NAr2ZnhFw-3llMktJCQh8H3HD502W5bA30lg0KRhHZUfmHgWCNjihoiG9y40td4Acsj0QyicHzHKOqj9ri4nNeGbnUa-Oim8dgTOE-vCzm6TNBBI7fAN-PZ/s1080/bunting%20nook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQRUl7-Q5hE9ktIjj0HrYaLcL5bR0NysJwH-z5aiDVrAonwLqAfmjtisM-kNffbm43NAr2ZnhFw-3llMktJCQh8H3HD502W5bA30lg0KRhHZUfmHgWCNjihoiG9y40td4Acsj0QyicHzHKOqj9ri4nNeGbnUa-Oim8dgTOE-vCzm6TNBBI7fAN-PZ/s320/bunting%20nook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Legend states (I always wanted to start a sentence with
that), much like a famous Shakesperean tragedy, that a young couple decided to
elope as their parents were against their relationship. Escaping on horseback,
down Bunting Nook, the terrifying black shuck appeared. The horse-sized hound
spooked their ride, throwing the young lovers to the ground. They were killed
outright, their necks snapping in the unfortunate fall. It is said that the
sweethearts still haunt this place, hoping to find peace.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As much as I adore horror, I can also be a bit of a sucker
for an ill-fated love story. I imagined their hope for a better life together,
only for their dream to bring their instant deaths. Would I see or hear them
tonight? My teen hoped to see the black shuck itself. We agreed to disagree. I really
was not keen to come across this particular canine creature, with its reputed
glowing red eyes and a howl to make my blood run cold.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not to leave anyone out, there was also the headless
horseman who had jumped his horse over the wall in a rush to fetch medical assistance
for the mistress of Norton Grange who had gone into labour. Both the man and
the horse were killed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I switched on the voice recorder, feeling a little flash,
and imagining how I would actually feel if it did pick up some eerie sounds. I pulled
out my (terrible) torch, and off we silently trudged in single file down the
dark narrow road. I wasn’t sure what to expect or how to feel. I just felt
certain that I should remain impeccably quiet and I didn’t understand that in
that moment. Even the sound of my boots crunching through the leaves felt wrong
and I felt cross with myself for it. That’s when I realised that I felt this
way because this street was unnaturally, eerily bereft of any noise whatsoever.
That did spook me somewhat because it was deeply strange and verging on
freakish. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched, was I being paranoid?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">More than halfway down, I lost hope that I would witness
anything ghostly, which was a rather deflating sensation. Though, on that final
stretch of Bunting Nook, I whispered to my teenage accomplice about the bitter
cold that had come from nowhere. Suddenly, the air became abnormally chilly, a
blast of ice across our faces, the impossibly freezing numb-nose kind of cold
as it’s about to snow. By the end of the path, all was normal once more. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Was I disappointed that I didn’t see anything untoward? Yes.
Was I relieved? Also, yes. As a writer of horror fiction, it’s Halloween in my
heart all year long. But what would I have done if that god-awful giant dog had
shown up? I perhaps realised that I wasn’t always quite as brave as I possibly
made out to be. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It got me thinking though. Ghost stories exist because
people talk to others about sightings and legends and folklore are born through
word of mouth. Just because I hadn’t seen any misty figures, it didn’t mean
that others hadn’t. What had other people seen?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Further research revealed that there is an actual current
ghost walk doing the rounds, led by local author Adrian Finney. He’s written a
fascinating book titled ‘Strange Sheffield’ about ghost stories and UFO
encounters around our city. Reading the book, I was utterly dumbfounded to read
his tale ‘The Woodseats UFO Encounter of 1998’ and the unusual orange orbs that
had appeared in the sky. Later than that, I had seen precisely the same thing
and I had never been able to explain it. I knew that I absolutely had to reach
out and contact Adrian. I found him on Facebook and he was delightfully friendly
and helpful when I explained that I wished to pick his brains. The first point
we agreed on was the weird atmosphere up at Bunting Nook.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The way I’d describe it, it’s like someone transported a
remote country lane into a city. It’s like someone hits the mute button.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later that evening, I trawled through the few photographs I had
taken and zoomed in to check that I hadn’t missed anything. I stared and stared
at one of the pictures. It was completely bizarre, but I thought that I could
maybe see a face? I sent it to Adrian and he agreed with me. I popped it on to
my Twitter, without any context, simply asking people if they could see
anything. I received a flutter of most varied responses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s got horns.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Looks like the devil to me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I think I see yellow eyes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Two figures?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Cloaked wolf.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“A dog.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, of course, “Your Momma,” because there’s always one,
isn’t there?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5uNL5nH9JLvTuVYb9NXY2P8rj4plTREUKc4xAhFdAqwklPtHXivU7X-UDsP-Z-URyXj3v22YNKxTJZMLK8RcTEtz8JElccYWytHLMY_fc2RGs6uv6PQO7uj_nunK9k0NkYoqB6PpO9j-WAI--1wxmrit0MWLGTYWFpvBt7XO6qj04iXskaW6yftk/s301/bunting%20nook%20face.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="301" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5uNL5nH9JLvTuVYb9NXY2P8rj4plTREUKc4xAhFdAqwklPtHXivU7X-UDsP-Z-URyXj3v22YNKxTJZMLK8RcTEtz8JElccYWytHLMY_fc2RGs6uv6PQO7uj_nunK9k0NkYoqB6PpO9j-WAI--1wxmrit0MWLGTYWFpvBt7XO6qj04iXskaW6yftk/s1600/bunting%20nook%20face.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I couldn’t particularly work out what it was I was looking at,
though I was left reeling that I was seeing anything at all. The fact that I had
walked by whatever it could be, and felt as though I was being watched, unnerved
me. Perhaps there was something to these spooky stories, after all? Adrian told
me that it’s often after the ghost walk, when people closely examine their
photographs, that they then respond to him with their eerie sightings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It made me listen to the voice recording again, making sure
that all was silent as I listened to it this time. On the last part of the
road, where I had felt the icy chill, I could hear the sharp intake of my
breath a few times, responding to the physical effects of what I had felt at
that time. I could hear the billowing wind of a storm, possibly even rain. Neither
weather condition had truly appeared at the time. I may never have all the answers
to this puzzle. But I definitely feel as though there is something considerably
spooky going on at Bunting Nook.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-49379960676320980572020-05-03T08:20:00.001-07:002020-05-03T08:20:12.062-07:00I Will Remember the Time When...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life halted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were locked down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t go to work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t leave the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I compared death tolls between countries.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I listened to repetitive daily briefings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no other news.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t get any shopping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toilet roll and flour were like gold-dust.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t see my lovely sister.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got creative with random ingredients.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids felt utterly lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to do things but lacked motivation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nature reclaimed territory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bluebells filled my garden.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weather was annoyingly glorious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We clapped our hands on a Thursday night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It felt like Groundhog Day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I missed my friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I yearned for cafes, the library, company and chat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t wear make-up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lived in my dressing gown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote things like this because I didn’t know what else to
do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bliTSkLJ_NI/Xq7hIDS2NFI/AAAAAAAAEbI/q6kfrIhTtw8L3PdrAa6unJnTNh-Fo-gNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bluebells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bliTSkLJ_NI/Xq7hIDS2NFI/AAAAAAAAEbI/q6kfrIhTtw8L3PdrAa6unJnTNh-Fo-gNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bluebells.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-5222668266196294522020-05-03T07:36:00.004-07:002020-05-03T07:36:57.353-07:00Lockdown Neighbourhood Watch.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s cutting the grass again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It can’t have grown much since yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Incessant whir of the lawnmower.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My neighbour’s Lockdown OCD.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another fucking barbeque.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time to close the windows.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye, Fresh Air,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will try again tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gaming teen screaming obscenities<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through paper-thin walls,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I try to relax<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In these “unprecedented times.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The five thousand grandkids<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arrive to visit their Nan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rules don’t apply to them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What Lockdown?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone has a supermarket delivery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see the van, and I want to cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How did they get that slot?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bastards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every little domestic gripe,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simply because,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this ever happens again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m blasting out Green Day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s9GM23Q0Vyw/Xq7W4nkdXxI/AAAAAAAAEa8/4oAUcXktBTceZMvnHlHCRzdvZsqFWaiPACEwYBhgL/s1600/lawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s9GM23Q0Vyw/Xq7W4nkdXxI/AAAAAAAAEa8/4oAUcXktBTceZMvnHlHCRzdvZsqFWaiPACEwYBhgL/s1600/lawn.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-31368729100592613482020-04-20T11:03:00.000-07:002020-04-20T11:03:03.909-07:00A Family in Lockdown.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son concentrates<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the whirr of the sewing machine,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thread making wondrous patterns on fabric.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter paints her trainers,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Acrylics in blue, red and white,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Making something unique.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My youngest daughter giggles,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she designs and develops online,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Constant calls from magnificent, chatty friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bask in a glory<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That my words will be published again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I still have something worthwhile to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are a creative team,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Struggling, sometimes, in this lockdown,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But united in our imagination.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nSDEiwJ_x0I/Xp3juyYksvI/AAAAAAAAEaA/oiv0BTWWqBUdA-YgUN-NhmBYPwHUA5ntACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trainers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nSDEiwJ_x0I/Xp3juyYksvI/AAAAAAAAEaA/oiv0BTWWqBUdA-YgUN-NhmBYPwHUA5ntACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/trainers.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-34994651754575759212020-04-09T03:31:00.000-07:002020-04-09T03:31:13.805-07:00It's Been A Year<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2TTB3CL2O_I/Xo75TEXDZFI/AAAAAAAAEZM/ThDDQtDArQIRxzQnM6UmxlqclV5qy7XhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/calendar%2Bapril.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1005" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2TTB3CL2O_I/Xo75TEXDZFI/AAAAAAAAEZM/ThDDQtDArQIRxzQnM6UmxlqclV5qy7XhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/calendar%2Bapril.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been a year<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since you left us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I listen to your funeral songs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On YouTube.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That used to hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, it makes me feel better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since you left,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world has gone quite mad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are in “unprecedented times,” you see.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are cooped up<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In our house-cages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are socially distancing, isolating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You would hate this shit:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being told how to wash our hands,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By politicians,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who clearly don’t know<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to wash their hands,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because they all have this virus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about how you would rant,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re all afraid<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scared of sickness and death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You were not scared of death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am writing again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words scribble and spill<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All over pages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just not the same words<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was writing when you died.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are locked away,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a drawer,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My eyes cannot see them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently, we need to come together<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a country.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But families still hold grudges<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And will not speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I could have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An hour with you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We could laugh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the stupid shit I have done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You always made me laugh,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until my belly hurt<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And tears would fall down my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This world needs chuckles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And hugs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This world tries to go on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This world is so much more shit<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you’re not in it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-44857715955729382122020-04-01T03:49:00.002-07:002020-04-01T03:49:54.317-07:00The Little Things I Moan About. (That I now miss.)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alarm clock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
School mornings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why isn’t it Friday yet?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where are my shoes?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve lost my purse.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going to work:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Menial tasks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cut, cut, cutting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jacket Potatoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wipe the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wipe the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wipe the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frantically dashing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No time for lunch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Waiting for the 76 bus<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the pissing rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No 76 bus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Noisy children.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instant headache.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Low blood sugar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God, I’m tired.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clock-watching.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finishing work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To go home,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which means more work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Washing pots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Making dinner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lunch boxes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Permission slips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Money for this, and that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you seen my PE kit?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Washing machine full<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of school uniform.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sit down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Struggling to keep eyes open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Defiantly watch Netflix<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until the crawl to bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alarm clock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Repeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t promise that I won’t moan about these little things
again, once this surreal time is over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I do complain, I will remember that I am fortunate to do
so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HPsCAwzUUo4/XoRxvNKB2GI/AAAAAAAAEYw/S7OMWwKWDocCPqw7jddCok58fycy27uVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HPsCAwzUUo4/XoRxvNKB2GI/AAAAAAAAEYw/S7OMWwKWDocCPqw7jddCok58fycy27uVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/clock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-75497409057763169722019-01-21T02:41:00.001-08:002019-01-21T02:41:42.019-08:00John<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ezCvIW4KNw0/XEWh2KrdUjI/AAAAAAAAESs/hvK8Qk3EwiMObAT6cmEnN6y5sUKeYDYDgCLcBGAs/s1600/blue%2Bheart.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ezCvIW4KNw0/XEWh2KrdUjI/AAAAAAAAESs/hvK8Qk3EwiMObAT6cmEnN6y5sUKeYDYDgCLcBGAs/s320/blue%2Bheart.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Time is a great healer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except that it isn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And all the other hushed platitudes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probably meant well,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are also pointless lies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because, nineteen years on,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pain is crushing and unbearable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You should be opening birthday presents.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You should be going out tonight,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To celebrate with friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who would they have been?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there are no balloons,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor banners,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor nineteen candles on a birthday cake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear my own heart beating<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And remember when yours stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Born too soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gone too soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never forgotten.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So little time with you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And your delicate skin,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And doll-like frame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Charlie looks like you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And your sleeping position was the same as mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are still here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is no celebration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s Hell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the eternal wondering<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of what could have,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Should have been,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But never was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So many missed birthdays now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never took you home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never pushed you in a pram.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We never fed the ducks in Graves Park.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never heard you laugh,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only heard the silence,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which still suffocates me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never took you to school,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And cut crusts off lunchbox sandwiches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t meet teenage you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never met your siblings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to your funeral,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think I might have been brave,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though that has become a blur.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
January comes and goes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time leaving another scar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am covered now,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart slashed repeatedly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tears splashing down my face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I remember you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the short time I was your mum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-68925910431304443812018-08-03T09:18:00.000-07:002018-08-03T09:18:49.664-07:00Take Me Away<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me across<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The heather-topped hills.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s drive, window down,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, my hair tickles my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sandy beach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toes dipped into North Sea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Collected shell mementoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cobbled streets<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And hidden yards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See the living history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me down<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Henrietta Street.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Strong smoked kipper smell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine we live there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me up<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To St Mary’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will read the gravestones<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And think about what life is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Visit Whitby Abbey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me feel small and insignificant<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Against the ancient walls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me down<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pier.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hold my hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watch the pink-gold sunset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to the harbour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look at the colourful bobbing boats<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And feel serene.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me across the swing bridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be lost in the sea of faces<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And familiar football shirts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Whalebone Arch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pose for photographs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In front of dramatic views.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take me to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our cottage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sea-air induced sleep<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And dreams of tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K0OCN7yyqYI/VY6AelUYL8I/AAAAAAAABAk/nR8nF91rZw8nRhlPGSMUXHYApmYUQgWxQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="500" height="211" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K0OCN7yyqYI/VY6AelUYL8I/AAAAAAAABAk/nR8nF91rZw8nRhlPGSMUXHYApmYUQgWxQCPcBGAYYCw/s320/hands.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-49066605517507412782018-04-12T14:42:00.000-07:002018-04-12T14:42:07.738-07:00Let Me Introduce Myself <br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The council estate kid at the affluent school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The naïve, down-trodden trusting fool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girl who started her period but had nobody to tell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girl in the strict house who longed to rebel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rebel who became the dreaded black sheep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girlfriend nobody wanted to keep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one who goes to the seaside and can’t stand to leave,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So keeps her heart there until she cannot breathe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day-dreamer, always lost in a daze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lucid night-dreamer, following insomniac haze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Locked in eternal grief because bereavement took over,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anniversaries of tragedy. Emotional supernova.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One who wears make-up as her warrior mask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman with the questions she never dares to ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The once hopeless romantic who got cruelly crushed – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love whispers and hopes: now silence; hushed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one who struggles with a smile on her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look closely, there are tears you can trace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until her heart stops beating – the mother who will fight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t upset the children. This mother may bite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The writer with dreams that never quite come true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one dressed in black that feels so blue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhat difficult, but if she feels your love – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’ll do anything for you, go beyond and above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone with many faults, this she does agree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She should be so much more, this she can see.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now agonisingly lonely and nothing can fill the hole.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Giving up trying to achieve any goal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scribbling away, trying to out the pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hoping that, one day, she feels better again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BHTtzX4w8Tw/Ws_SYESr8tI/AAAAAAAAEPQ/Bz0gpeZMQ3gR35fsbnyGWy8zpmmE-T_FwCLcBGAs/s1600/paper_journal_and_pen.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="395" height="238" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BHTtzX4w8Tw/Ws_SYESr8tI/AAAAAAAAEPQ/Bz0gpeZMQ3gR35fsbnyGWy8zpmmE-T_FwCLcBGAs/s320/paper_journal_and_pen.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-3852926344527847482018-04-07T15:25:00.001-07:002018-04-07T15:25:51.083-07:00The Beast from the East.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Beast from the East was angry,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he was sharpening his claws.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gnashed his frightful fangs together <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And practiced his fearsome roars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Pest from the West had annoyed him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And for that – he would have to pay!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had made his mind up:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would unleash his power today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started with the temperature.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His fury froze the very air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People shuddered and shivered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Eastern Beast did not care.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shrieked and yelled ferociously,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until the sky turned completely white.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, he was saving his best tricks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For when daytime turned to night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People slept; cosy in dreamy slumber.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oblivious, they did not know<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That the rattled, fuming Beast<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had sent the most chaotic snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It arrived in startling clumps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gigantic flakes abound.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They whizzed down from the sky<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And settled on the ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, let’s see<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who is puny and small!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Beast from the East laughed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the snow continued to fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ha! Is that all you’ve got?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sniggered the Pest from the West.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A cute winter wonderland?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is this seriously your best?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Beast emerged from his cave<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And let out a terrifying howl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stood up on his haunches<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And began to madly prowl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His rage increased his strength<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he blew with all his might.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His icy windy breath<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caused a blustery fright.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The storm had begun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It burst into full-swing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, the Angel of the North<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Started to sweetly sing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Beast from the East,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How silly you are;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spreading this terrible weather<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So wide and far!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pest from the West,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now bite your tongue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We must teach this Beast<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To know right from wrong.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oi! Leave it out!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There came a groan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the Mouth from the South,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having another moan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Angel rolled her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had so much to say!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was full of self-importance!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And held far too much sway!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, he didn’t speak for all,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Merely a select few.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, the Angel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knew just what to do!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She thought about the people,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who would be shivering in bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow, they would panic!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’d buy all the milk and bread!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They couldn’t drive their cars,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And life would fall apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Humans of the United Kingdom<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Couldn’t cope with a snowy morning start!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She put her big coat on,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rolled up the sleeves somewhat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She would show these boys<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The things that they’d forgot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Beast remained so angry<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wanted to put on a show.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’ll be no attention-seeking here, Pet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can forget your snow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Pest from the West was left wanting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because he had no real fame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, it was up to the Angel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To end this ludicrous game.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Mouth from the South was tiresome,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only serving to stir the pot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He didn’t know the people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Care? Oh, he did not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the Angel closed her eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Visualising grass that was green,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melting the irksome snow,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As though the storm had never been.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scolding all: Beast, Pest, and Mouth;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In only a way that an angel can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She grounded them for a month<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, quite rightly, set a ban.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No more engineering weather!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It should be bloody Spring!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Send out the daffodils.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Angel did sing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And the crocus and the colour<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And a rare sunshine smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These people have had enough<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of this weather that is vile.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let them eat chocolate bloody eggs,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And book a holiday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For once: Beast, Pest, and Mouth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had nothing at all to say!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They retreated into hiding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, Angel was proudly on display.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A beacon of hope and beauty,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Always having the final say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EPw6JONiSjs/WslFZZCvO9I/AAAAAAAAEO0/GC3OstwusQo0b-iufynsbSKZNWFN3yJpwCLcBGAs/s1600/angel%2Bnorth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="766" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EPw6JONiSjs/WslFZZCvO9I/AAAAAAAAEO0/GC3OstwusQo0b-iufynsbSKZNWFN3yJpwCLcBGAs/s320/angel%2Bnorth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-6269615663265066202018-04-07T14:13:00.000-07:002018-04-07T14:13:00.618-07:00As She Sleeps.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she sleeps,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sees him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They meet in dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s like the good old days<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of tipsy laughter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And golden memories.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That time he pushed her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Against the filing cabinet at work<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And kissed her until<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was a hot mess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she tired of him<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Talking on the telephone,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So she invented ways<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To cheekily distract.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he defended her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the bullies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would fight her corner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does he remember that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sleeps,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though still feels his touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An expert.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A PHD in her body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She dreams of babies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still feels the contractions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, she sees him<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Holding her hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slumber brings milky smiles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the smell of Johnson’s Shampoo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pure yellow sunshine<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a bottle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sees pushchair walks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And dropped toys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hears sad wailing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She recalls the retraced steps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of family holidays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arcade machines<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And perfect harbour views.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She dreams of banter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And flirtation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her cheeks redden;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shade of her favourite scarlet cardigan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she sleeps,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She forgets<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That he’s no longer there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until she wakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s bittersweet,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until it’s just bitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, as she sleeps,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sees him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mtDthm1gTzA/Wsk0MmckZ5I/AAAAAAAAEOk/m8ANQ1y_clY4wEMutckwrKSZIqfcTDQjwCEwYBhgL/s1600/sleep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="852" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mtDthm1gTzA/Wsk0MmckZ5I/AAAAAAAAEOk/m8ANQ1y_clY4wEMutckwrKSZIqfcTDQjwCEwYBhgL/s320/sleep.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-88966282107392038632018-03-22T15:10:00.001-07:002018-03-22T16:10:56.844-07:00Strips<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LvtmOvsVDig/WrQpaq5UEKI/AAAAAAAAEOU/WkLfAwea4uswn9PyZWvVwIFbNsyPIE0twCLcBGAs/s1600/Week47Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="563" height="239" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LvtmOvsVDig/WrQpaq5UEKI/AAAAAAAAEOU/WkLfAwea4uswn9PyZWvVwIFbNsyPIE0twCLcBGAs/s320/Week47Photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, it was all dinner dates, coy smiles, and
flirtatious gazes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said the ‘L’ word first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, that’s nice,” he’d replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She should have known better. She didn’t – she was young and
somewhat in awe of his easy charm and oily lines.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was full of fairy tales, dreams and bullshit. So, she
sat him on a nonsensical pedestal. Bless her, she genuinely believed that she
could keep him there forever: regal; lording it above all and sundry, despite
knowing that she wasn’t good enough for him. But, she had won him! And she
never won anything, not even on a tombola, so she considered herself lucky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He began tearing the strips off rather early on in their
unbalanced relationship. Little ones, scratching at the corners, so small that
she didn’t notice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If your hair was this colour…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you wore those shoes…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you weren’t friends with that crass girl…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you didn’t watch insipid soap operas…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you did that thing in bed…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The strips tore too easily after that. They fell apart like
pieces of delicate, old, yellowed paper. Like confetti all around her – thin,
too swift and tiny to catch and hold. Like an ancient map – found, at long-last
– crumbling into dust. She was in love and thought that she had found her
Disney Prince. How she cooed at all who would listen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shit happens. And it did. She found herself having a hard
time. She became low, exhausted and she forgot to care about how she looked. He
dampened the paper and set to peeling away the second layer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you weren’t so down…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you didn’t sigh so much…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you were more fun…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you didn’t question me…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If we have a break…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No! She must keep him on the pedestal: better than everyone
else; ensconced in silk and velvet, in the perfect position to tear more strips
away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She took hold of her life again and her confidence dared to
grow. Though, they would now argue every evening and tears dripped into wine. It
was time to rip off some more strips; remind her of her place. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you hadn’t put on weight…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you listened to what I say…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you didn’t have opinions…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you hadn’t let yourself go…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you were more like her…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was now red raw, there were few strips left to shred. She
had given up, though she kept him on his beloved pedestal but more out of habit
than love. The pitiful pattern continued: the stripping and obliterating the
final, stinging, barely-there layers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you weren’t such a cretin…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you weren’t such a hateful bitch…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you weren’t a lazy asshole…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I still fancied you…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I could stand to look at you…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gone. The layers were gone. All that remained was a bloody,
vacant, pulpy mess where a life had once been.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fire had gone out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had turned off the lights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And pissed on the dying, smoking embers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She could no longer find the strength or the motivation to
beg for reprieve or resuscitation. To her utmost horror, he slipped from the
pedestal. It wasn’t a dainty demotion. It ripped open the universe. She woke
up, she opened her eyes. She yearned to tear some strips: pulling the plaster
off quickly; one large single bout of agony. No slow peeling and endless yelps
of pain. She wanted to unwrap the Egyptian mummy – fast – and bury the covering
underground forever more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were too many unkept promises, too many cruel yet decadent
lies. Mostly, there had been too much unravelling. Her scars would never heal. After
all this time, the strips couldn’t be replaced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rising from the coma, she decided that she might be worth
saving. It stabbed her a million times, but she dragged him from the footstool
of the pedestal, and she threw him in the bin. She scrubbed away his
footprints. She held the TV remote control. She looked people in the eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you hadn’t torn the strips,” she whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-8517123713235160882017-09-10T02:11:00.001-07:002017-09-10T02:11:32.182-07:00Spooktacular Halloween Author GiveawayI am taking part in this fabulous author giveaway. There is a grand cash prize and you can win loads of lovely books and other spooky prizes! I am offering a signed copy of Black Eyed Boy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/2703c98f80/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="2703c98f80" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_knfzsunw">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a><br />
<script src="https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script>Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-81561208336932026282017-08-14T05:01:00.000-07:002017-08-14T05:01:02.516-07:00Love WhitbyI would like to dedicate this blog post - and the following story - to Love Whitby. Love Whitby is a Facebook page, run by the gorgeous Carol Hixon. It's a love and celebration of all things Whitby; the jewel of the North Yorkshire crown. Anyone who knows me - or is familiar with my writing - will know that I am a Whitby obsessive. To visit the place is to fall in love.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I sat outside the beautiful holiday cottage, paper and pen in hand, I thought about what this quirky seaside town means to people. I enjoy reading the posts on the Facebook page. Generations of families have holidayed there. People got married there. People spent their honeymoon there. I read with great interest where people are staying, what their favourite view is, what they have been up to. I came up with this short story and, though some themes are sad and difficult, I believe that it shows an understanding of what Whitby means to people - and why.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Pearl’s Ode to the
Seaside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always loved the seaside: the sound of the squawking
gulls, the sand between my toes, the smell of the hot, fried sugared doughnuts.
I first went to Whitby as a small child. My older sister, Vera, had spooked me
with sinister tales of blood-sucking vampires. I was quite frightened as the
train pulled in; thinking that Count Dracula would pounce and puncture my young
neck. I struggled to sleep on that first night. When I awoke the following
morning, and saw the beautiful view from the window, I let go of my worries
completely. We headed to the beach and splashed excited tiny toes in the North
Sea. It was absolutely freezing initially, but it soon warmed up. We buried our
youngest sister, Nellie, in the sand. We hunted for fossils and begged for ice
cream. We lusted after the gigantic jars of colourful, sticky sweets in the
enticing sweet shop window. I had the best of times; giggling with my sisters
during the nights. Mother incessantly fretted and told us to be quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Vera, Pearl, Nellie. Not all the hotel guests want to
listen to you, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was different as I grew a little older. I still looked
forward to our visits to Whitby; even if I was a somewhat cynical teenager. By that
point, it was all about flirtatious smiles and eyeing the attractive older boys
on the beach. Mother watched me like a hawk, though she needn’t have worried. A
smile was just that and nothing more ever happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though, not much longer after that summer holiday, I did
meet a boy. Back home in the city where I had been born and still lived. My Frank.
Smitten is the word, though it doesn’t remotely do my feelings justice. We had
met at a dance at the Community Hall and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Gosh,
he was so handsome and he had the most bewitching blue eyes. His pals were a
rowdy bunch, but Frank stood out and he seemed different to them. He was
quieter and so considerate. I fell head over heels. It was a whirlwind romance,
as they say, and after just shy of six months of courting, we were engaged to
be married. A date was set for the following spring. My sisters were to be my
bridesmaids.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wore my mother’s wedding dress and how her eyes leaked
rivers the first time that I tried it on. It must have brought back memories of
her own wedding day. Happy flashbacks of love and commitment, though now
peppered with sprinkles of woe as my dad had died many years ago. My mother had
been pregnant with Nellie at the time. I studied my mother as she dabbed her
eyes on a handkerchief. Greying hair and lines beginning to appear around her
eyes. I felt sorry for her. As awful as this sounds, I hoped never to be her –
foolishly believing that I somehow had a choice in the matter; that I could
hang on to both my husband and eternal youth, simply because that was what I wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our wedding day was lovely and we were lucky with the
weather. After a truly horrendous downpour the day before, the sun kindly
decided to poke its way out of the clouds for us, just in time for the wedding
photographer to snap, snap, snap away. We didn’t have a party, we went for a
nice meal at the local pub with close family and friends, because we had a
train to catch. We were going to Whitby for our honeymoon. Frank had never been
before, and he knew how fond I was of the place, so he didn’t take much
persuading.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was both excited and nervous on the journey there. I was
overwhelmed with joy of being Mrs Siddall. I was also a little fractious about
our wedding night. Vera had said that she’d bled, and that it had hurt her at
first. Although, it was nice after that, it was all rather messy. I blushed
crimson at the mere notion of it. As we checked into the hotel and were shown
to our room, I blushed rather more. A double bed with crisp, white sheets. But,
also, a view out to sea – all the way to Sandsend – and my giddy heart galloped
at the sight of it. I felt a rush of nostalgia for my childhood holidays. I knew
that Whitby would always be my special place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the morning, once the deed was done, I felt like a woman
for the first time. Did people know? Could they tell? It was surely written all
over my face? I definitely noticed a new inner confidence, and perhaps a sense
of a quiet authority. We climbed the hundred-and-ninety-nine steps and we
walked around the dramatic ruins of the Abbey. I was in love. In love with
Frank. With life. With Whitby. I cried when we had to return home and our
magical honeymoon was over. Though, I would soon be busy turning our tiny
terraced house into our first home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year later, I was pregnant and our first child was born. A
beautiful baby boy. But, he was still and silent. There was no cry. He had died
inside me. We called him William and marvelled at his crop of dark hair, but he
was quickly taken away from us and I was left more bereft than I could ever
have imagined possible. There is no greater pain. That first year of pining for
him was particularly brutal. Frank took me back to Whitby but, looking back. I don’t
even remember hearing the noisy gulls. I was locked inside a private bunker of
grief and agony. I sobbed, tears mingling with the sea and the never-ending
Yorkshire drizzle. At least the weather matched my mood. Sunshine and blue
skies would have been some sort of betrayal. We stayed in a small, quaint
cottage that time, all alone and nestled away down a secretive little ghaut. I could
see the harbour from the window and I would watch the little boats bobbing up
and down upon the choppy water. It was about the only thing that could soothe
my soul. The violent silence of William’s birth was still ringing in my ears
and it became the sickening soundtrack to my childless life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back home again, I longed to fill the rooms with noise, the
quietness and the nothingness was deafening. I distanced myself from Mother for
a while. I had to. Her platitudes, despite being well-meaning, engulfed me with
rage. I could not stand to hear that he just wasn’t meant to be. My heart ached
out of pure love for my son. And then there were the sentences about time
healing all things etc. Well, he wasn’t a thing. He was a beautiful boy. And the
questions terrified me. When was I going to try again? Could I risk another
pregnancy? Would I lose another baby? Would it be as though I was casually
replacing William? It was all too much. So, I withdrew from everything and
everyone. I was broken.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreamed of Whitby frequently, though it was several years
before I visited again. I waited. I waited until I could enjoy all its quirky
charm again. I finally found some courage and determination and I conceived
another child. I gave birth to the prettiest little girl in all the world:
Jennifer. The second she was born, she cried that loud, startling new-born cry
and it was so alien to my ears, yet so vastly reassuring that I quite broke
down. She looked so much like William and I felt too many emotions all at once.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once Jennifer could toddle around unaided, we booked our
first family holiday. We stayed in a cheery, homely B&B up on the West
Cliff. We helped her build sandcastles on the beach and we took her out on a
boat trip. She saw a seal and it was all she talked about for days. My seaside
days were blissful again and Whitby was, once more, the backdrop to many of my
happiest and most treasured memories over the years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We didn’t really talk about adding to the family. I would
never get over losing my boy. And Jennifer was the sweetest and funniest girl. I
just don’t think that we had the heart. Anyway, the option was soon taken away.
I went through the menopause rather early. I was only in my thirties. I’d had
an inkling that something was a bit off and it was while we were away, enjoying
another family Whitby holiday, when I started to join the dots together. We’d
been walking along the pier, nothing too strenuous, and I felt so odd. I was
suddenly much too hot and sweat started to drip down from my forehead and I
could feel it pooling at my back. I excused myself and made my way to the
public toilets. I looked in the mirror and I was shocked. I looked terrible. I was
wearing foundation make-up, but the beads of sweat on my face mingled with the
beige cosmetic and I looked like an eerie waxwork of myself. My skin was
scarlet. A pitiful moan escaped from my lips. I was quickly getting old before
my time. The grey hairs were no longer merely a few sporadic strands that I could
tuck behind my ears. I remembered vowing never to be like this: old, ageing;
but here it was and there was nothing that I could do about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jennifer blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Yes, I am
biased perhaps, but her long, curly auburn hair and those mesmerising blue eyes,
that she’d inherited from Frank, meant that she turned heads everywhere we
went. It was her turn. It was her time. Mine had ended. I would blur into the
background now, largely unnoticed as women of my age largely are. I passed on
the baton of womanhood to my daughter and I donned the cloak of invisibility.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jennifer married Stuart, a local mechanic with a friendly
face, kind brown eyes and a polite manner. They, too, honeymooned in Whitby,
keeping the seaside tradition alive. Grandchildren arrived, two little boys.
Jake and Samuel. I went to Whitby with them a few times and it was always
tremendous fun to see the seaside through their young eyes. Donkey rides,
crabbing, salty chips in cones accidentally dropped to the ground and the frenzy
of the greedy gulls. I watched them eagerly push their collected copper coins
into the slot machines in the arcades. But, I was getting older and I could
feel it. It took me a long time to reach the top of those
hundred-and-ninety-nine steps. The pain in my hip and legs made my eyes water. Though,
I always cherished the view from St Mary’s Church. I must have photographed
that same view a thousand times, but I never tired of seeing it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank began to slip away. He had developed a horrible cough.
I said that the sea air might help, lord knows it helped me sleep. Nothing helped.
It got a lot worse. By the time that he’d had enough of my constant nagging and
finally made an appointment to see the doctor, there wasn’t much that could be
done. It was too late. He was dying. I watched on, terrified, as this once
strong man became gaunt and weak. Frank deteriorated quickly. I tried to hang
on to the more favourable images in my head. My handsome groom. Frank the
father, racing around the garden with a little, giggling Jennifer on his back. I
couldn’t always grasp on to them. They would fade too, much like old
photographs. Colour drained and we were left in Sepia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lost him. My Frank had gone. I was devastated, my head
reeling and I couldn’t help but feel angry with him for leaving me all alone,
rattling around that house. The weeks were a blur. Black. Mourning. Cards. Flowers.
Sentiments. Platitudes. Dishes of homemade casserole. Checking to see if I was
alright. I was not alright. Half of me had vanished and I would never see him
again. The bed was huge and cold and lonely. Waking up and remembering that he
had died was torture. I declined numerous invitations to return to the seaside
with Jennifer and her family. I wasn’t ready to see the breath-taking views
without him. I thought that I would struggle to make it up the steps without his
strong and steady arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people say that you can die from a broken heart. I thought
about this a lot, and I decided that I agreed. It was a slow demise; weeks
crawled into the pockets of months and the first-year anniversary of Frank’s
death loomed on the horizon. I could feel myself slipping away and I doubted
that I would even reach that particularly painful milestone. I was fading. I could
feel it. Sepia disappearing into nothingness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked Jennifer to take me back to Whitby. As I hadn’t shown
any interest or enthusiasm for anything for months, she was delighted. I felt
cold to my bones in that North Yorkshire wind. I wept like a small, frustrated
child once I realised that I couldn’t walk up those steps. I instructed
Jennifer to go up without me and take a photo of the view for me. I felt
wretched.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the drive back home, I fell in and out of sleep. Snippets
of dreams of William and Frank were remembered, other strands were forgotten. I
had never felt so weary when I shuffled out of the car and back into my house. Jennifer
kissed me on the cheek and said that she would ring me tomorrow. I simply
smiled and nodded, but I knew that I would never hear the ringing of the
telephone, nor would I hear my beautiful daughter’s voice again. I had given
up. I was ready. I was old and it was time. I didn’t feel upset or frightened. I
felt a calm and welcoming acceptance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My darling, Jennifer. If you are reading this, then I have
passed and it was my will to do so. I have been so tired and so full of sorrow
for all that I have lost. You have been the best daughter that a mother could
have wished for. I know that I leave you happy, settled and content with your husband
and your children. This is my story. My ode to the seaside. Climb up those
steps again for me, dear, and sprinkle my ashes at the edge of the clifftop,
right by my favourite bench, to the side of St Mary’s. You know the one. My silly
old legs wouldn’t let me go up there yesterday. This way, I will always be in
my most favourite spot in the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All my love, forever and always,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
xxx<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6GZssmV2R-s/VGBBewMiv3I/AAAAAAAAAT4/UpJoOhd_MNM2q3YtSAjmsjMrpyHvPCnjgCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/blog%2B2%2Bchurch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6GZssmV2R-s/VGBBewMiv3I/AAAAAAAAAT4/UpJoOhd_MNM2q3YtSAjmsjMrpyHvPCnjgCPcBGAYYCw/s320/blog%2B2%2Bchurch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can find the Love Whitby group here: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/1077074545715774/" target="_blank">Love Whitby</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you enjoyed my writing, my first two novels are set in Whitby, too. They are available on Kindle and as paperbacks. You can find them here: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK/ref=redir_mobile_desktop?_encoding=UTF8&fp=1&noEncodingTag=1&pc_redir=T1&redirectFromSS=1" target="_blank">Black Eyed Boy</a> and here: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Green-Eyed-Girl-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B017RYBI3E/ref=pd_sim_351_1?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=NEKYGMDDPB187QK61DEY" target="_blank">Green Eyed Girl</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks for reading. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39_-wUHo93U/WZGQoLV3Y4I/AAAAAAAADvk/MasXvGPAMykHm7hLRgthIfEvRO_55pnPQCLcBGAs/s1600/beb%2Bamazon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="307" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39_-wUHo93U/WZGQoLV3Y4I/AAAAAAAADvk/MasXvGPAMykHm7hLRgthIfEvRO_55pnPQCLcBGAs/s320/beb%2Bamazon.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0MWVdvlfzaU/WZGQr9CP55I/AAAAAAAADvo/mUlyn0oKBWolZAhna1bKMpGU_rpoxd0jwCLcBGAs/s1600/geg%2Bamazon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="307" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0MWVdvlfzaU/WZGQr9CP55I/AAAAAAAADvo/mUlyn0oKBWolZAhna1bKMpGU_rpoxd0jwCLcBGAs/s320/geg%2Bamazon.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-45803156991291613912017-01-14T12:08:00.001-08:002017-01-14T12:08:45.214-08:00Bowie: Soundtrack of My Life.<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ground control to Major Tom</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I didn’t think about
the words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I played with My
Little Pony toys,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Jem dolls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Action Man seduced
Sindy,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Under the covers and
in the bathtub.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Put on your red shoes and dance the blues</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
My first pair of high
heels:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Poppy-coloured with a
large bow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I liked the
clickety-clack sound<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
They made on the
pavement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I still do; a
life-long love affair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Sixteen. I thought I
knew everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I knew nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Stranded in seedy
nightclubs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The floor would spin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Where was my purse?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>All we need is music, sweet music.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And we made our own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I listened to the
words<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
As we wrote our own
song<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And fell in love;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Head over scarlet
heels.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Motherhood calling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Confidence rising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Sleepless nights and
milky smiles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
A love and bond so
strong,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
My heart could burst.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Time may change me. But I can’t trace time.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Children growing,
learning, blossoming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Pride and
contentment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I think I have found
myself,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Nestled within the
scribbled pages<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Of my own written
words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNvT2sZhxyg/WHqFPkFXTiI/AAAAAAAAC1Q/OuZ-0bE6kvUKSC3FRENqBYTWLjLdaHytgCLcB/s1600/bowie%2Bblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNvT2sZhxyg/WHqFPkFXTiI/AAAAAAAAC1Q/OuZ-0bE6kvUKSC3FRENqBYTWLjLdaHytgCLcB/s320/bowie%2Bblog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-88430510738781283812017-01-02T09:25:00.002-08:002017-01-02T09:25:51.432-08:00Post-Christmas Blues<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Christmas Holiday,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is with a heavy heart that I write this farewell letter. You
have been good to me and I will never forget your kindness. Thank you for
allowing me to switch of that absolute bastard of an alarm clock for an entire
seventeen, most precious days. The lack of the battle of the snooze button has
been a real treat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not having to do the school run, wash uniforms and PE kits,
sort lunches, sign relentless permission slips and remember to pay for a vast
array of school-related things has been a true blessing. Not having to be Mrs
Bad Cop and remind / force children to do their tedious homework has also been
a key delight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, Christmas holiday, how I had yearned for you. How happy I
was to see you. But, alas, I now must say goodbye, and that sucks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not ready. I’m not prepared to take down my pretty
Christmas tree and see the living room look so plain and dull. I’m not ready to
stop eating Ferrero Rocher for breakfast, and be back at work, so far away from
my fridge. My fridge. Somehow, it still contains all the cheese in the world. I
can’t remember the last time that I walked by said fridge without nibbling on
some calorific snack or other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the booze. Oh, how I have enjoyed the booze. The extra
glass or three of wine that I would never be able to handle or justify on a
school night. And when the wine got an upgrade and became a rum. Because, who
cared? It was the beloved Christmas holiday. I’m holding back the tears as I consider
the fact that I must face reality again in the morning. I will greet it with a
string of highly-creative expletives, two raised fingers and a face so mardy that
Grumpy Cat will fret that her career is over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will pine for my fluffy dressing gown. We have spent so
many wonderful days and nights together, sat on the sofa, doing fuck all. And
it has been magnificent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until we meet again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hugs and kisses,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laura.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2kQnOYxBIkU/WGqM7UP_RmI/AAAAAAAAC0o/pvRFRh_W1BwNvGL7v7XDyWpwXPyLphcrgCLcB/s1600/gcat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2kQnOYxBIkU/WGqM7UP_RmI/AAAAAAAAC0o/pvRFRh_W1BwNvGL7v7XDyWpwXPyLphcrgCLcB/s320/gcat.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-38011001650900065752016-12-07T23:14:00.000-08:002016-12-07T23:14:47.527-08:00Angel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe stayed out of the way, hiding in the shadows, but he
could hear the raucous crowd count down, and then the cheers and celebration as
the Christmas lights were switched on in the heaving city centre. He tried to
smile at the notion that families were together and having a pleasant evening,
but he couldn’t find one. It had slipped away from his dirty face before it had
started. He pulled his tattered bit of blanket towards him. It was still sodden
from the horrendous downpour the night before. It would have been easy for
tears to fall at that moment. Not that he cried very often at all; the
exhaustion and the ice-cold wind were just too much for him at that moment. Last
night had been typically terrible. Saturday nights always were. But the rain
hadn’t stopped. It had gushed down the streets and he had ended up soaked
through to his skin. Drunken revellers had been particularly cruel and
vindictive. It had started with juvenile jibes; which Joe had completely
ignored. The quips were far from intelligent and the drunkards were unable to
offer anything witty or that he hadn’t heard a thousand times before. But then
they started to throw their glass bottles in his direction and one had gashed
his arm. He refused to retaliate. He’d only end up in the shit. They were,
somehow, considered to be real people in the world because they had jobs and
houses, bank accounts and Wi-Fi passwords. He was a homeless man; invisible,
worthless, destined to draw last breaths upon these tired streets. And then one
of them had unzipped the fly of his crisp, new jeans and proceeded to take a
piss on Joe. A spray of warm, yellow urine had covered his shoes. He had wanted
to tell them that he used to be a real person too. But, what was the point?
They wouldn’t listen. And nobody ever cared. They wouldn’t even make eye contact.
They would deliberately look in the opposite direction. Or incessantly at their
phones. They did that all the time now. Living in a pretend way.
Tap-tap-tapping and swiping. Not seeing the reality in front of their faces.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had been real once too; existing on paper and even owning
a roof over his head. He’d been an English teacher at a secondary school. He’d
been married. He’d had a daughter. And when that beautiful, funny,
sweet-natured little girl had been diagnosed with Leukaemia, things had swiftly
begun to fall apart. Jo-Jo was as ill as anyone could be. The treatment had
robbed her of her golden ringlets and it had left her so wiped out that she
could barely sit up most days. Suddenly, there was a lot of vomit and
melancholy. He had promised her that she would be okay. But she wasn’t. And she
had died. And the angry recriminations arrived quickly. And a marriage
collapsed. And a job dissolved. And there wasn’t any help. Joe had been rapidly
beaten up by the benefits system. Their point-collecting test had deemed him
capable of work because he had thought to comb his hair for his appointment. In
truth, he wasn’t capable of anything. Not even killing himself, there had been
several unsuccessful suicide attempts. How many of us bring children into this
world? And how would you feel to watch them die? It’s a life-long mourning. No
first teenage kiss. No jubilant or despairing exam results. No first job. No
future. Nothing. Just a funeral and too many flowers. So many flowers that they
quickly become and personify the stench of death itself. Never to be purchased
again. Never to set foot in a florist to be greeted by that horrific, poignant
aromatic reminder. Because it’s too much. And it remains too much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe’s stomach angrily growls and he can’t remember when he
last ate. Mainly because he isn’t even able to remember the days, other than
Saturday when he wonders if it will be the end for him. He would mostly welcome
that. He’s worn-out and consumed by grief and regrets. It might have been
Thursday. But Thursday might have been Wednesday. Or Friday. He only knows that
he is starving hungry, and the sensation is only becoming worse by the minute
as the wind carries the scent of the Christmas market in his direction. He can
smell chestnuts. He thinks of Christmas dinner with his family. Christmas
crackers, sprouts and a turkey crown. Smiles and stockings and waiting for
Santa the night before. He is so far away from this world now and he knows that
he won’t ever be able to find his way back. Joe’s tired and the hunger pangs
are making him feel sick, so he shuts his eyes and hopes to succumb to sleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cold weather has made him ill. He has a cold and it has
gone to his chest. He rattles as he coughs and splutters. He thinks he has
pulled a rib as the pain is so severe. It’s Saturday again, and he’s too weak
to deal with the drunken bullies. He must get away. He needs to move from this
subway. He’s too much of an easy target here. Though he doesn’t know where he
will go. Certainly, not the park. Another homeless man was stabbed in there
last week. He’d seen the ambulance and then read about it in a discarded
newspaper. As much as his body ached, he would have to walk for a while. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had ended up at the gardens. He wouldn’t normally visit
this place. He didn’t like feeling as though he was exposed. He didn’t want the
families with children to see him. But, this is where his feet had taken him,
and he felt a little brighter just at the sight of it; this urban greenery
tucked away amongst the grey of the buildings. He liked the water features and
the lights at night-time. And as his dark brown eyes scanned the area, he saw
an actual angel. At least she looked like one. Ethereal in white lace and soft
blonde curls. Her lips were painted pink and they smiled and smiled, as did her
eyes. A sigh escaped from Joe’s mouth. She posed for the camera and pure joy
radiated from her pretty face. A bride. A beautiful bride on her wedding day.
She was perfection; heavenly and divine. He looked to see who the lucky groom
was. He wasn’t quite sure at first, they all looked the same in their suits. He
realised that all he had to do was follow her adoring gaze. It was a tall chap,
serious looking. He smiled too, though not with his eyes like she did. Her
smile could light up the darkest room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shivered now, the early December air nipped at her
through her thin white bridal gown. Though, the groom didn’t seem to notice.
Joe suddenly wished that he had a nice jacket, so that he could be a gentleman
and offer it to her. He would place it around her thin shoulders so that she
could feel warm. A lady in lilac, wearing an ostentatious feather hat, began to
usher everyone across the way. The bride offered her slender, pale hand,
reaching out to grasp and entwine her new husband’s fingers. But, again, he
didn’t notice, as he laughed with his friends and swiped at his phone. Her hand
went ignored and Joe saw the crestfallen look upon her face. He longed to see
her smile return, and it briefly reappeared once she realised that her guests
were watching her, but it wasn’t real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He felt bad. He had accidentally witnessed a private moment,
a secret thought, that wasn’t his to see. Because her beauty meant that he
couldn’t take his eyes away from her, he had become a kind of voyeur. He made
himself turn away then, and he was going to stand up and walk away until he
suddenly felt as though someone was now watching him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was her. It was the angel. She studied him from the other
side of the artificial stream. He felt his cheeks burn crimson. He had
forgotten this feeling, he was embarrassed. He half-enjoyed the old warmth in
his face. She smiled at him; her real one, and his cheeks reddened with the
heat further still. Before he could even think about it, a hearty beam spread
across his face. She tried to coax him towards her with her hands, but he
didn’t move. He didn’t understand. She pointed to the building behind her. The
wedding party were filing in and disappearing from his view. Was she inviting
him inside? Because that was madness. She tried again, pointing to the
entrance, but he shook his head from side to side, he couldn’t possibly accept
her invitation. Her special day. Her fancy party. He stank. He was filthy. He
was a mess. A coughing fit abruptly halted his train of thought, as he held on
to the bench beneath him for support as the pain in his ribs jabbed at his insides.
When it finally started to ease off, he looked up, and the angel had gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe struggled to his feet, and how his bones ached as he
shuffled up the path and even more so as he fought to ascend the steps. But, to
his amazement, there was a prize waiting for him at the top. She was back, and she
was even more truly exquisite up close. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you won’t come to me, then I’ll come to you,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had two paper plates, one in each hand, and they were
both laden with buffet food. There were tiny sandwiches and mini sausage rolls,
petite pastries, and crisps. She popped them down on the nearest seat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even her voice was alluring; silky and gentle, it matched
her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was flustered as her kindness was so unexpected. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You should get back to your party,” was all he could
mutter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re welcome to join us. There’s more food than we could
eat and you look as though you could do with warming up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I won’t fit in, but thanks for asking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who cares? It’s my wedding, I can invite who I like,” she
announced, her hands on her hips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Angelica, what on earth are you doing out there, talking to
that tramp? Come back inside,” her new husband bellowed his order.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She winced at his choice of words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m going now. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” said Joe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry,” she whispered, with the merest hint of tears in her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t be. I’ve been called a lot worse. Thanks for the food,”
he said, accepting the tempting treats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He turned away and walked down the high street. He felt sad
that he had caused a scene, even though he surely hadn’t intended to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe wondered if he would ever forget her. He thought that he
probably wouldn’t. She had been such a mesmerising sight. He smiled that she
had the word ‘angel’ in her name. So fitting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another week had passed and the Christmas shoppers were
flapping in a blind panic now. He thought of how excited his daughter, Jo-Jo, used
to get at this time of year, though his brain fought not to, as the pain was
unbearable. He worried about the harm he was doing as he bottled up the
feelings and tucked them away. Some nights, he would wake in a sweat,
struggling to conjure up the image of her sweet, freckled face. He knew there
were freckles, at least. But, she was slipping away further still, even after
her death. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realise that someone had sat down
beside him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Penny for them,” came a familiar mellifluous voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The angel had returned. And he couldn’t help but smile. It
was such a gift to see her again. He noticed the garish, bright red Christmas
jumper she wore, a big reindeer with a pom-pom nose, and it amused him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was wondering if you’re wearing that jumper for a bet,”
he laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She put some pound coins into his palm and grinned at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s a work thing, for charity,” she explained.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nodded, he had seen a lot of festive jumpers just lately.
It must be a new thing, he mused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How are you? Has that cough got any better?” she asked him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not sure it ever really goes away,” he said, with a
shrug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked sad then, and he wished that he had offered her a
different answer, a better one. He couldn’t stand to see the pain in her blue
eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have been thinking about you a lot, and I don’t even know
your name.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He blushed that he had been in her thoughts, that had quite
made his day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Joe,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I made you some soup,” she announced, pulling a large flask
out of a rucksack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Gosh, that’s very kind. Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In fact, all of this is for you. You can just take the bag.
There’s a blanket, and some socks and a few other bits I thought you might
need.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was astounded. He wanted to say something magnificent. He
had once taken great pride in his vocabulary and word choices. Now, he had
nothing, and he felt frustrated by his silence. And the silence continued to
grow until it almost became a third person upon that bench, sitting between
them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you don’t want them, I won’t be offended. Oh dear. I’m
sorry, have I done the wrong thing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was visibly upset now and he hated himself at that
moment. He collapsed under the emotion, tears leaked down his dirt-stained
face. It was as though she had opened something inside him; unlocked an old,
abandoned door, turned on the stiff, rusty tap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am not used to this level of kindness, you must forgive
me. You are an angel. A real angel,” he wept.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She threw herself in his direction, dabbing tissue to his
wet face, hugging him fiercely as though it could fix all that was broken. And
they remained huddled together for a long time, crying quietly into the night.
He cried for Jo-Jo. He cried for his old life that had cruelly disintegrated.
He cried for this beautiful young woman who had chosen to help him. It was late
when they parted, and he couldn’t help but question why she had elected to stay
with him for so long, what with her new husband surely waiting for her at home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Midway through December, Joe was flagging. He was tired. Exhausted.
His bones ached and his legs were incredibly stiff in the morning. Someone had
hit him last night, he had been punched in the face by a drunken stranger. No
explanation was given. The young man merely stumbled away afterwards, as though
it had never happened. His mind kept travelling back to marking English
assignments, the taste of mulled wine and Jo-Jo opening the windows of her
advent calendar. He didn’t think that he could do this any longer. He wanted to
fall asleep, under those stars, and never wake up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As though she had read his thoughts and peered into his very
soul, the angel returned once again. She’d brought boiling hot coffee and mince
pies for them both. They talked a lot. He told her about his daughter and his
failed marriage and when he had been a real person with a job and a mortgage.
She got cross with him and told him that he was the most real person that she
had ever met. She sobbed at his tale of woe, especially when he described Jo-Jo
taking her final breaths and that, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember
her funeral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asked her what she was doing for Christmas and her whole
body stiffened. She became anxious and prickly and didn’t want to talk about
home, so he left it. If she didn’t wish to talk about it, he certainly wouldn’t
push her. He could only guess that the new marriage wasn’t going so well. That
devastated him as he vividly recalled her smile and the love in her eyes when
she had been that bride, only weeks ago. He felt this more when it was time to
say goodbye. She didn’t seem to want to let him go and he knew that he would
worry about her until he was lucky enough to see her again. She had promised to
come and find him next Saturday. He would make sure that he was aware of the
passing days. He would count them. He had something to look forward to for the
first time in a long time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
True to her word, there she was. She was wrapped up warm in
a white winter coat, fur around the hood, and she still appeared angelic and
magical to his eyes. She had brought croissants and hot, sweet tea today. She
was fretting about a presentation that she had to give at work. He went over
her notes and corrected her grammar, which only served to amuse her to see that
the teacher in him hadn’t disappeared at all. They talked about Christmas
traditions and they laughed as they compared their childhoods, which weren’t so
different really. At one point during the afternoon, there was a long pause in
their conversation, which seemed somehow to be her doing. They simply listened
to the sounds. The city centre had become a miniature fairground. They could
hear the laughter of children, and it didn’t hurt him as much as it once would
have. He could handle it because she was there. Joe could handle anything if
Angelica was there. She brought him comfort, hope and joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The week before Christmas, he felt himself pining for her
company. He thought of her wrapping presents, a glass of wine and carols on the
radio. Her face illuminated by the lights on the fragrant Christmas tree. He
hoped that she was happy. More than anything in the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time dragged horribly as he didn’t see her at all. Where was
she? Was everything okay? He didn’t know where to find her, so he was stuck in
this terrible limbo of waiting, waiting, waiting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t until Christmas Eve that she turned up, and he
could immediately see that all was not well. She had been crying. Her eyes were
puffy and red, her face was blotchy. He was on the ground in the subway and she
scurried underneath the blanket and he tried to share all the warmth with her
that he could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Angels shouldn’t cry,” he whispered into her forehead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s over,” she sobbed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He didn’t need to ask. He understood. He had half-expected
this kind of news.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then, what a mammoth loss he shall suffer,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You talk about real people, Joe. Money doesn’t make you
real. Having a heart makes you real. And you must stop believing that I am some
kind of angel, because I’m not. Not at all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You will always be an angel in my eyes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He isn’t real, Joe, he’s not like you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wanted to tell her something sensible, some sage advice
about patching things up. But he couldn’t. The very second that he had seen
them on their big day, he had known that this man had not deserved her.
Perhaps, no one did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s Christmas soon,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angelica looked at her watch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In about an hour. Can we just sit here for a while?” she
asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I would have to cancel my meal at The Ritz, but,
sure, anything for you,” he grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laughed then, a sincere hearty chuckle, and she snuggled
in closer and closed her eyes. He tried to stay awake, to wish her Merry
Christmas and send her back to her home with central heating and a bed, but he
fell asleep too. Cosy contentment was a heady concoction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He awoke to her sharp elbow, digging into his side, jostling
him awake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Morning,” she said, “Happy Christmas.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s the happiest Christmas I have had in a long time. Come
on, get up, get going. I won’t let you spend your Christmas here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I won’t let you spend your Christmas here either,” she announced
staunchly, hands on hips and a determined look in her eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t have much choice,” he reminded her, “However, you
do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want to go to my mum’s house.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wise choice, she hides the sprouts underneath your mashed
potato,” he smiled at the memory she had told him about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come with me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t. Look at me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just see a brilliant man. Maybe, he could do with a hot
bath. I will make sure you get one. I want you to have a Christmas dinner, Joe.
Mum always makes too much food. But, more than anything, I want you to be with
me. Please, Joe. You wouldn’t come in to my wedding reception. Please, come
with me now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stood up and extended her hand, her eyes pale, large,
and appealing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was scared. Petrified of what this could all mean. But,
more than anything, he desired to be at her side today. And so, he took her
hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uaJbGgJfenk/WEkD62uOmaI/AAAAAAAAC0Q/MEQOdqVHWMU0yeRPdK76o9PIl2zSM9qyQCLcB/s1600/Ceramic_Christmas_Tree_ange.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uaJbGgJfenk/WEkD62uOmaI/AAAAAAAAC0Q/MEQOdqVHWMU0yeRPdK76o9PIl2zSM9qyQCLcB/s320/Ceramic_Christmas_Tree_ange.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been increasingly saddened, by the growing number of
homeless people on our streets today. I always stop and chat and offer what I
can, despite not having much to give myself. Nobody should be in this position,
and it breaks my heart. My story has a happy conclusion, one that most people
don’t get. This story comes with a promise. Myself and my daughters will be
wrapping up Christmas parcels of warm socks and festive food. We will be giving
them out to homeless people in the days before Christmas. Thank you for
reading. Christmas is a time for giving. Let’s give to those who need it the
most. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.shelter.org.uk/" target="_blank">Donate to Shelter</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author of Black Eyed Boy & Green Eyed Girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDKJpLEBH4I/WEfYYAEqi7I/AAAAAAAACzw/pwrQlFy7hj0B9leYiK69LShxQaPVBgg6QCLcB/s1600/beb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDKJpLEBH4I/WEfYYAEqi7I/AAAAAAAACzw/pwrQlFy7hj0B9leYiK69LShxQaPVBgg6QCLcB/s320/beb.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK" target="_blank">Black Eyed Boy</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-48400612735321041532016-10-30T03:59:00.001-07:002016-10-30T03:59:52.689-07:00Whitby Inspiration.<div class="MsoNormal">
As the autumn leaves dance through the air and I, once
again, turn to my favourite jumper, I think about my beautiful holiday. At the
very end of summer, I returned to my favourite destination: Whitby. This North
Yorkshire coastal town calms my very soul. I feel better. I sleep better. And I
am always inspired to write something when I am there. The views and the
atmosphere are so incredibly rousing if you have a creative mind. My first two
novels are set here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKGlqN3KY_Y/WBXP2i53zsI/AAAAAAAACx4/oRiG77E5Az4-XzxLwcS9_spuD2Xu3tcmwCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bview.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKGlqN3KY_Y/WBXP2i53zsI/AAAAAAAACx4/oRiG77E5Az4-XzxLwcS9_spuD2Xu3tcmwCLcB/s320/whitby%2Bview.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once more, Whitby Holiday Cottages provided me with a
perfect base. I stayed in a gorgeous cottage, on Cliff Street, named Abbey
View. The booking process had been simple and easy. On arrival, we were greeted
with a tray of complimentary drinks and biscuits. Fresh flowers were in several
rooms. I knew that I was going to have a brilliant week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mIarlxHtXbw/WBXQCZnywbI/AAAAAAAACx8/6dWLk4ZkFNAyRdZP9PyifRoD79g27yyUACLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bhouse%2Btray.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mIarlxHtXbw/WBXQCZnywbI/AAAAAAAACx8/6dWLk4ZkFNAyRdZP9PyifRoD79g27yyUACLcB/s320/whitby%2Bhouse%2Btray.JPG" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tc1JP-nbnLE/WBXQQnB9pZI/AAAAAAAACyA/WaPn2cVMvC8JXISAfgFy-T3TS4obV0xPgCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bhouse%2Bdoor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tc1JP-nbnLE/WBXQQnB9pZI/AAAAAAAACyA/WaPn2cVMvC8JXISAfgFy-T3TS4obV0xPgCLcB/s320/whitby%2Bhouse%2Bdoor.JPG" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KozgVUWhzfM/WBXQaYjZQZI/AAAAAAAACyE/MxkVDYve38gVOM3xEN-oplyUd_nc_WowgCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bhouse%2Bbedroom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KozgVUWhzfM/WBXQaYjZQZI/AAAAAAAACyE/MxkVDYve38gVOM3xEN-oplyUd_nc_WowgCLcB/s320/whitby%2Bhouse%2Bbedroom.JPG" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whitby’s magic had me enthralled immediately and we did so
many fun and interesting things over the course of those wonderful seven days. And
when it grew dark and we all started yawning, we headed back to Abbey View with
smiles on our faces. The view from the living room window was exquisite. I miss
that view and I think of it often. I also miss taking my cup of coffee and
writing pad out into the front yard in the morning, knowing full well that
words would find me and they would soon be caught on to that blank page. And it
didn’t take long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pHCcNc4H9xs/WBXQmJios1I/AAAAAAAACyI/gJVxJmWayLsieJpJyPYBNijIi_lgLe8ZgCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Babbey%2Bfog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pHCcNc4H9xs/WBXQmJios1I/AAAAAAAACyI/gJVxJmWayLsieJpJyPYBNijIi_lgLe8ZgCLcB/s320/whitby%2Babbey%2Bfog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUrH50gU_YQ/WBXQvP32-KI/AAAAAAAACyQ/g-QVRPzgmosbO5jPhegJ9lrkl9NEsHEOgCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bgarden.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUrH50gU_YQ/WBXQvP32-KI/AAAAAAAACyQ/g-QVRPzgmosbO5jPhegJ9lrkl9NEsHEOgCLcB/s320/whitby%2Bgarden.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One morning, I looked up at Whitby Abbey and it began to
disappear as a fog seemed to descend from nowhere. It appeared rather spooky
and my head was coming up with all kinds of ghostly notions. I thought of Bram
Stoker and some of the key scenes of Dracula that were set on those winding
hundred-and-ninety-nine-steps. As a fan of horror, I quickly came up with an
idea. And I scribbled and scribbled away until I had finished.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m-Hv2r7U0Fk/WBXQ5mmsWKI/AAAAAAAACyU/QovlR10QLHchWtK-GJTgUDrVvFGR0mqBQCLcB/s1600/whitby%2Bgarden%2Bwrite.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m-Hv2r7U0Fk/WBXQ5mmsWKI/AAAAAAAACyU/QovlR10QLHchWtK-GJTgUDrVvFGR0mqBQCLcB/s320/whitby%2Bgarden%2Bwrite.JPG" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it’s almost Halloween, it seems the ideal time to share this
with you. Here is my short Whitby story, very much inspired by my stay at Abbey
View. Thank you, Whitby Holiday Cottages, for another marvellous holiday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Midnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the bells rang out from St Mary’s, deep into the night,
the creatures of the darkness were summoned from their hiding places. Fog
circled the Abbey, concealing the dramatic ruins from view. Snow-white seagulls
soared through the ebony sky; so starkly bright that they almost appeared spectral.
Even the buildings huddled together, over on the east side, as though they were
conspiring to veil some ancient secret. Old whisperings crept along thin
ghauts, leading into the still harbour and high up into the clifftops. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rain splashed the cobbled streets. The narrow strips of
pavement glistened along Church Street. This street attracted masses of
tourists by day; it embodied the notion of the hustle and bustle of a popular
seaside town. Though, it stood eerily empty and silent by night, and it was an
entirely altered place by midnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The humans inside the cottages slept soundly and could not
be roused from their deep slumber. Come the morning, they would comment upon
how well they had slept and proclaim that the sea air had been responsible.
They never knew or understood that the sea air had so little to do with it and,
in fact, they had been under a Whitby spell; a deep-rooted and profound trance.
The creatures of the darkness could run amok these antiquated streets with wild
abandon, and after hearing the proud chime and cry of the church bells, they
stirred from their ramshackle graves. Arms outstretched and the low hum
beginning, clawed hands scratched and scooped at the soil. The awakening had
begun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hums became chants, quiet yet strong and purposeful; a
synchronised rumble of growing noise. Tales of former glories, a pretty face
and maritime adventures. Bodies emerged, in varying states. Skin was gashed
open, revealing bone. In some cases, limbs were lacking. Clothes were tattered
and spattered with blood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rhythm grew stronger, louder, much like the beat of a
heavy drum. As Whitby slept, the creatures marched down the
hundred-and-ninety-nine steps. The chant became a roaring sea shanty and it
lost its echo to a past well-lived and it became a despairing sonnet of
recollected pain. A ballad of anguish and agony that had long been forgotten.
But they remembered. The creatures. They both recoiled from the harrowing
flashbacks and embraced them. They were important. Lives had been lost, so many
of them, and although the horror was relived on a nightly basis, it could not
be accepted. So, they lingered, night after night, repeating this haunting
process with no closure to end their suffering. How could they move on? They
hadn’t found him. He didn’t have a final resting place as they did, and it
simply wasn’t right. Not for a lad so young.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His father, the captain of a once great ship, lead the line
of ghostly sailors. His pale blue eyes were drowning in melancholy, but a
flicker of determination still resided there. He hobbled along on injured legs,
and his remaining arm swayed at his side. A long, cruel gash ran down the
length of his torso, but he didn’t appear to feel the physical pain. He only
felt the eternal love in his heart and the sickening loss of losing his
precious son. And he felt the guilt, always, it burned his soul and swallowed
him whole. He never should have allowed his only child to step aboard that ship
on that fateful evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The captain thinks of his poor wife. He imagines her all
alone, consumed by grief, and he vows to find her. It’s the same sorrowful
story each night. But he never finds her. She’s long gone. Shuffling along the
deserted streets, the captain’s hefty, black boots stop dead on Grape Lane. The
others stop too, leaving a respectful distance between them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His timeworn eyes leak tears and they race down his weather-beaten,
gruff face. What was once his home, is no more. The building remains, and when
he closes his eyes, he can hear his son right there on the street. He’s
laughing and playing; he’s full of life. He can hear the sweetness in his
wife’s voice, as she gently guides him back inside the house in time for
supper. As he opens his eyes, they are gone, and only some kind of shopfront
looks back at him. He peers closer. Books. It’s a bookshop. And he cannot
fathom how this could be. Where is his wife? And where are the remains of his
dear young son?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An ear-splitting, pitiable moan roars from his throat and
into the cold air. He cannot rest until he finds them. Though, he senses that
this will not occur tonight. It’s late, and now his bones are beginning to
ache. So, on he goes, bypassing the other men as they fall into an orderly
single line behind him. The ballad of torment builds once more. The sonnet of
memories plays as they stride back into the hush of Church Street. The chanting
grows stronger as they ascend the many steps, slowly fading to a hum as they
climb back into their aged graves, covering themselves up with the earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The captain takes one last glance out to sea. It faintly
shimmers, though it’s nothing but a blanket of thick, black darkness out there.
He too settles back down, deep into the ground, as the boisterous gulls shriek
overhead; the only witnesses of the ghostly sailors and their tragic, nocturnal
mission. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can book your own fabulous Whitby holiday here: <a href="http://www.whitby-cottages.net/">Whitby Holiday Cottages</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first novel, set in Whitby, can be found here: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK">Black Eyed Boy</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sequel can be found here: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Green-Eyed-Girl-Huntley-Laura-ebook/dp/B017RYBI3E/ref=pd_sim_351_1?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=WDVRZTGB6S60JRXYZSXN">Green Eyed Girl</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Halloween! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LCHGSGuRoIY/WBXSX3WL8YI/AAAAAAAACyk/7E1yK-tgpn456SLdG6HuqeggweODc768wCLcB/s1600/ghost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LCHGSGuRoIY/WBXSX3WL8YI/AAAAAAAACyk/7E1yK-tgpn456SLdG6HuqeggweODc768wCLcB/s1600/ghost.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-66700953694528064362016-05-09T13:52:00.001-07:002016-05-09T13:52:21.343-07:00Jean<div class="MsoNormal">
Eccentric quirkiness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Delights and amuses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Constant chatter<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With kooky tangents,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like growing tree branches<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or a busy map;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lines lead<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And cross over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A long and interesting life<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Makes for many stories.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tales of dear friendships<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And a Sheffield childhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tales of art and creativity<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the Cathedral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, she’s naughty<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And eats crisps<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And chocolate,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we laugh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because we’re just the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similar in so many ways:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excitable conversation<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And moments of inspiration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doodles on envelopes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pen comes alive<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With her lively drawings;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Skilled illustrations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she talks of going,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of fading now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And tears sting my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t imagine that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never met anyone like her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eighty-four and full of vitality.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And a wonderful mischief<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dances in her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like to watch her smile<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And love to hear her laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s unique.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You won’t find another Jean,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even if you searched the world,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until the end of time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caring for feline friends,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She has a beautiful soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she is loved,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that is why I can’t –<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And won’t-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine a world without her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think she knows<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That she plays such a big part<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-51573558595275903922015-07-27T08:26:00.002-07:002015-07-27T08:26:35.965-07:00Back to Whitby.<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m off to Whitby next week and I can barely wait. I can’t
sit still and I feel like screaming loud, giddy noises. I always look forward
to my holiday there. I tend to leave a little bit of my heart in Whitby each
time I leave. But … this time … I am going back as a published author. My debut
novel, Black Eyed Boy, is set there and, soon, I will we walking the same
cobbled streets and across the dramatic clifftops as my beloved characters;
Emily and Dylan. I just know that I will have a soppy smile on my face for the
entire week. I will sigh at the beach huts. I will grin at the whale bones. I
will coo at the walk to Saltwick Bay. There’s something even more special about
this particular trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruXttLzNSzo/VbZNZDq0VpI/AAAAAAAABEs/fp9DrLoMIgA/s1600/Glenn%2BWB%2BQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruXttLzNSzo/VbZNZDq0VpI/AAAAAAAABEs/fp9DrLoMIgA/s320/Glenn%2BWB%2BQuote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have written the sequel (Green Eyed Girl) and it is with
my publisher, Crooked Cat, set for publication towards the end of the year.
Have my feet touched the ground yet in 2015? Errrm ….. Nope. As this will be my
second book, I hope to feel as though I understand the publishing process a
little better this time. I will be out taking photographs of book locations for
Pinterest boards, quotes, and the all-important book launch. It will,
simultaneously, be a fun family holiday and a book research jaunt. And I am counting
down the days now, much like a small child desperately awaiting the arrival of
Father Christmas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a35x-uXMRgQ/VbZNeX0gpvI/AAAAAAAABE0/wbVw1lUNb7A/s1600/Glenn%2BES%2BQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a35x-uXMRgQ/VbZNeX0gpvI/AAAAAAAABE0/wbVw1lUNb7A/s320/Glenn%2BES%2BQuote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have started the third and final instalment of the
trilogy, yet I still have a long way to go. I’m aiming to be finished round
about the end of the year. I feel slightly more pressure this time. All the
ends need to be neatly tied up in a shiny bow. It has to be complete. And it
absolutely must be as beautiful as I can make it. Luckily, I will have Whitby
for inspiration. Because that’s what Whitby does. It makes me want to write and
capture the essence, charm and splendour of the town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Whispers* Five … more … days. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OVGbw2FB8KI/VbZNlfwM3PI/AAAAAAAABE8/wozBv0nEZBQ/s1600/Glenn%2BESN%2BQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OVGbw2FB8KI/VbZNlfwM3PI/AAAAAAAABE8/wozBv0nEZBQ/s320/Glenn%2BESN%2BQuote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-43482106969358108992015-07-15T06:11:00.002-07:002015-07-15T06:11:59.713-07:00Green Eyed Girl<div class="MsoNormal">
Black Eyed Boy being published was a whirlwind of fun and
excitement. It was something that I had always wanted to do. I ticked a
gigantic box on my bucket list. But, I always knew that there would be more to
come from my characters. So much happened to them within the pages of the first
book but the ending was left tantalisingly open for so many more adventures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found that having a book about to be released helps to
focus the mind. I knew that I wanted to do this all over again. And, thanks to
sleepless nights and non-stop typing Saturday writing days, I somehow managed
to complete a first draft of the sequel – Green Eyed Girl - before Black Eyed
Boy was even released. I submitted it to the publisher and I signed a contract
last week. Before the year is out, the sequel will be published. This makes
2015 my most creative and productive year … and we’re still only in July. I
have started to write the third and final instalment of this trilogy. I plan to
take a little more time with this project as I aim to have all the threads tied
up and I want the most beautiful and satisfying ending possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. The reviews on Amazon
for Black Eyed Boy are amazing. Most of them beg for the sequel as soon as
possible (this is the biggest compliment!) and it makes me happy to be able to
offer that to readers before this year will draw to an end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As previously, I will be remaining tight-lipped about the
storyline. But, I will tell you that the novel begins just over a year after
the ending of Black Eyed Boy. Favourite characters (Mrs Bishop, anyone?) will
return and there are some new characters joining the story too. If Black Eyed
Boy was the emotional read, Green Eyed Girl will be the tense read. Start
growing your nails now. And get ready to bite them all off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T_SKK-LnetM/VaZbyqp8UiI/AAAAAAAABEY/jUKBPz-zDVc/s1600/greeneyedgirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T_SKK-LnetM/VaZbyqp8UiI/AAAAAAAABEY/jUKBPz-zDVc/s320/greeneyedgirl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK">Black Eyed Boy</a></o:p></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-49040209533323584192015-07-11T02:54:00.002-07:002015-07-11T02:55:06.942-07:00The A-Z of Black Eyed Boy. Z is for ... Zest.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
the last blog post for the A-Z of Black Eyed Boy. I almost went with zeal. Emily
certainly has much enthusiasm in her devotion and pursuit of Dylan. I changed
my mind at the last minute, opting for zest instead. I think this theme really
shows the impact that Dylan has upon Emily and her life. At the beginning of
the book, Emily is bored and disillusioned with pretty much everything around
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
different when you live here; you forget to look at the picturesque views, and
fail to remember the simple pleasures of feeling the sand between your toes. It
all becomes just: a photograph on a postcard to send elsewhere, meant for those
who appreciate it, who have saved their wages to come here for a short time,
and then sullenly depart, back to their own lives. I’m always here; Whitby is
where I was born and where we still live, and sometimes the pebbles and the
candy floss just don’t thrill me. When all of the tourists had settled back into
their holiday cottages, I had stayed out alone, wishing that something exciting
would happen, but suspecting that it never would. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As you can see, zest, energy and excitement are
clearly lacking. I feel sorry for her. She feels like a ghost in her own home
as her parents are eternally preoccupied. There isn’t much hope left in her
that things will ever change and improve. I think we’ve all felt like that at
times. When she isn’t messing about with her best friend, Billy, Emily’s days
are monotonous and dull. But, not for long …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We turned the
corner and I stopped in my tracks. There was a boy, probably a little older
than Billy and me. I’d never seen him before, so took him to be a visiting
holidaymaker. He had the blackest hair I’d ever seen. It was long and unkempt, and
he had to keep sweeping his fringe out of his face so that he could see
properly. He was tanned and toned, and was wearing only a pair of black shorts
and some tatty trainers. He was tall and ridiculously handsome. His bare chest
and confidence made me lose composure. Suddenly I felt much too hot. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
change in her begins immediately. On seeing Dylan for the first time, she
experiences a physical reaction. Little does she know that her life will now
never be the same again. Emily has to contend with the biggest and most painful
life events during the pages of Black Eyed Boy. She doesn’t understand how she
will get through the tragedy and heart-break. But now she has Dylan and he
loves her. And even during those bleakest moments, her heart still sings at the
pure joy of her first-time romance. Dylan becomes something of a drug to her. She
forever needs her next fix.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“Neither have I,” I confessed. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone until you
came along.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“That’s because those lips were made for me,” he said, softly tracing
the shape of them with his fingertip, reigniting the fire that had only just
been extinguished. We kissed for ages, standing on the edge of the sand. People
walked by but I didn’t care. I was too busy falling head over heels in love. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But, unfortunately, when you’re kissing the boy of your dreams,
something odd happens to the time. It races ahead without your knowledge or permission,
and leaves you mystified as to how an entire day has remarkably elapsed. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
obviously not going to reveal the end as you may not have read the book yet.
But there is hope. Emily finds her own way to pick herself up, dust herself
down and find that all-important zest; the way to finally live her life with a
sense of anticipation. Her eyes are open to all the beautiful things that life
has to offer. And that puts a silly and soppy smile on my face. Because, it
turns out, I am far more of a romantic than I ever knew I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_9Kg367_5k/VaDnhaYpKmI/AAAAAAAABEA/-LLhQ5GW940/s1600/Zest%2Blogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_9Kg367_5k/VaDnhaYpKmI/AAAAAAAABEA/-LLhQ5GW940/s320/Zest%2Blogo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i> </i>I hope that you have enjoyed the A-Z. There's a link below if you're interested in reading the book:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK">Black Eyed Boy</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-25422236057619237992015-07-10T04:03:00.003-07:002017-09-16T05:16:17.256-07:00Black Eyed Boy - What's the Story?<div class="MsoNormal">
Black Eyed Boy is a contemporary romance novel. Yet so much more. It is written through Emily’s eyes. Emily is a fifteen year-old girl and she lives with her parents in Whitby, North Yorkshire. She is lonely at home; her father is far more interested in drinking and her mother seems eternally cocooned from life, trapped in a bubble of private depression. Emily’s only company is her best friend, Billy. They share a fun and easy companionship, until Billy begins to have amorous feelings towards her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early on in the story, it becomes apparent that all is not well at home and Emily soon finds herself having to be strong, brave and older than her years. She worries how she will cope after receiving some heart-breaking news. But, then her whole life is tipped upside down by the arrival of a mysterious and handsome (oh my goodness, so handsome) stranger in town.<br />
<br />
The stranger is Dylan; a charming, travelling gypsy boy. He has the darkest eyes and he is incredibly tight-lipped about this. Emily is soon smitten and wishes to spend every waking hour with this gorgeous, cryptic boy that she is falling in love with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the feeling is mutual. They quickly embark upon a close and all-consuming relationship. But, tragedy strikes and Emily is soon drowning in grief and sorrow. Her best friend, Billy, can’t stand the fact that she has a boyfriend and the jealousy changes him. He goes from being her sweet, reliable ally to a spiteful and problematic element in her life. All of the rapid changes and traumatic events leave Emily feeling more alone than ever. She wants to turn to Dylan but he will not share his secrets with her; Emily needs to know what is going on but she starts to feel increasingly left out in the cold.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, Emily discovers the dark truth. And she can’t face it. Her instinct is to run and hide away. But gypsies travel and Dylan is leaving Whitby, with or without her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can Emily accept the powerful secret at Dylan’s core? Or is it all too much, is she supposed to be alone?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you like any of these things, you are in for a treat: romance, love, lust, beautiful boys, strong teenage girls, emotion, secrets, darkness, twists, friendship, relationships, to weep into tissues, hope, endearing old ladies, evocative scenery, the seaside, rooting for the main character, remembering youth, first kisses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK">Black Eyed Boy on Amazon</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AAmLgIfH3BE/VYAUZkSVS1I/AAAAAAAAA94/QLRv19DPn2Y/s1600/coverbeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AAmLgIfH3BE/VYAUZkSVS1I/AAAAAAAAA94/QLRv19DPn2Y/s320/coverbeb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1611292451402008087.post-28011522475625433652015-07-10T00:48:00.000-07:002015-07-10T00:48:45.119-07:00The A-Z of Black Eyed Boy. Y is for ... YA.<div class="MsoNormal">
I had never written one word, intended for a YA audience,
before. And then, BOOM, before I knew it, I had written an entire novel aimed
at young people. It came as a bit of a shock as I had never even thought about
it. But I am so glad that I did. Writing about teenagers was a joy. They are
still optimistic and have the world at their feet. They don’t have mortgage
payments and are not stuck in a job they loathe. They are fresh and finding out
who they are and what they want. I think they’re a lot more interesting than
most adults in that regard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was lovely to see first love blossom too. Those kisses
that mean everything and leave you feeling dizzy. The way your body lets you
know that you might be ready for more. It made me rather nostalgic at times,
remembering little snippets and emotions of memories from my own teenage years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have finished the sequel to Black Eyed Boy and it is now in
the hands of the publisher. The contract has been signed, this week, and Green Eyed Girl will be out at the end of the year. I have started to write the third and final
instalment. It will be a sad farewell to Emily and Dylan at the end of all of
this. But, I have another book project lined up for afterwards. And it’s more
for the YA audience. It will be completely different to Black Eyed Boy. But I
already love the main character. I can hear her punchy words and the sarcasm
thick in her voice. After that, who knows? But I’m not ready to move on from
YA. They are the people I want to write for right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zyFdEEhIkRk/VZ6u_AzpPhI/AAAAAAAABDs/V9f-Ju0uIuY/s1600/teenager%2Bquote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zyFdEEhIkRk/VZ6u_AzpPhI/AAAAAAAABDs/V9f-Ju0uIuY/s1600/teenager%2Bquote.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Eyed-Boy-Laura-Huntley-ebook/dp/B00V213GHK">Black Eyed Boy</a></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Laura Huntleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950471747894297215noreply@blogger.com0