Something popped

Annemarie's story

Something Popped

Today would be her first day back at work since her flight back from Australia. She was ever hopeful that there were no sudden sounds; after three months her hearing was fine but any popping sounds were like little explosions in her head, not tinnitus -  no, not ringing but little bursts, always irritating but sometimes painful. She had explained to her doctor that on the long-haul flight back to UK she had the usual feeling in her ears with the change of air pressure but they never 'popped' and now it was as if they were in limbo, constantly awaiting the 'pop'.

At breakfast the sound of the toast popping up resembled gunshots and she couldn't stop herself from ducking. She lost her temper with Graham for popping grapes into his mouth, one at time. Each little muffled 'pop' had her covering her ears...and feeling very stupid and apologetic. Even when the fish in their aquarium came up for air with a minute little gulp she heard a burst of 'plupf' and she had to leave the room.

Yesterday on the metro opposite her, there had been a cute little kid sitting quietly beside his mother, his fingers feeding their way along a piece of bubble wrap - pop, pop, pop. Little high-pitched explosions in her head. She couldn't bear it and Diana left the train one stop early and took a taxi the rest of the way lest she let her pain and irritation loose on a perfectly well-behaved child.

She was excited but a little nervous about tonight as it was the first time she had to present at such a prestigious event. How would the sounds on the stage affect her composure?

She asked Graham to run her bath with plenty of Dr. Heal's Pink Himalayan bubble bath. Stuffing cotton wool in each ear to shut out the sound of bursting bubbles she luxuriated in these few  tranquil moments.

Hair done she gathered  her dress - deep aquamarine with a long thigh-length split and halter neck, finished with a sparkling Swarovski button - her shoes and jewellery, and took a taxi to the theatre.

  Disconcerted by the taxi-driver chewing on a piece of bubble gum - little fire-crackers bursting in her ears- she arrived at the theatre jumpy and flustered.  Dressed, her face make-up immaculate she added a simple platinum necklace set with a deeply-coloured amethyst for a pop of colour. A couple of deep breaths and she calmly entered the stage and proceeded to announce the winners in various categories. She braced herself at each round of applause.  With the third nomination as she presented the trophy she heard something pop. Resounding loud as gunshot in her head she swung around in fright fearing a demonstrator - but no one, nothing. The film star about to receive his award and the audience on the other hand looked shocked, mildly embarrassed and some were sniggering. From the wings a crew member hurried up to Diana, glittering Swarovski button in his fingers; he stood in front of her and shielded her and, more importantly, her ample bosom ensconced in its nude bra, from the audience but too late to prevent the live transmission, the photos in newspapers, on YouTube of her very public wardrobe malfunction.

_________________________________

Mary's story

Snapping, Springing, Skipjack Beetles

We swarm towards the light

of the bright glowing moon

our celestial compass,

our cue to navigation.

We have no choice.

We are trapped.

We are compelled, impelled, propelled to go

round and round,

the strange light.

We are flying beetles,

Giant moths and mosquitoes,

We fly, fly, fly

never stopping

then suddenly dropping

from the sky…

exhausted.

Some struggle, squirming on their backs

unable to flip over

thin legs kicking, jerking,

till death stills them.

But we snapping, spinning, clicking, skip jack beetles

fall on our backs.

Then something POPS! POP! POP!

Something clicks CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

It’s like we are shot up out of a canon.

Up and up we fly

Flipping round and round.

Were acrobatic beetles

Coming down, down, down

and landing… on our feet.

Mary Vanroyen

_______________________________________

Paula's story

Eliza was sitting on her balcony high above the rock-strewn beach one sunny afternoon, a glass of cold champagne at her elbow and a good novel in her lap, gazing out onto the blue expanse of sea and sky: a recipe for blissful happiness. But she was not blissfully happy. She was wearing a bra that was tight where it should have been loose, and loose where it should have been tight. She was very warm on a cool and breezy day. Her hair refused to do what she told it to do.

That’s when something popped into her head. An idea. A scheme. Something that might make her feel better, and possibly help others like her to feel better.

That’s how the We No Longer Care Club began.

She’s fetched her laptop from her desk and settled in to write an email to her closest female friends. “Join me,” she wrote. “Tell me what you no longer care about now that we have hit the golden age of menopause. I’ll start.” And then she listed the ill-fitting bra, her whacko body temperature, her frizzled hair. “You just get to the point where you no longer care about a lot of stuff you used to, right?” she asked them. “So send me a list of things you no longer care about. And ask other women you know to send their own.”

The messages started pouring in. It was as if she had opened a floodgate of annoyances and grievances, and women were eager to jump in to the flow.

Chin hairs. Unpainted toenails. Leaving the house without makeup on. The bathroom scale. My neck. Those came from her friend Annie, who said she feels like she has been taking care of others — children, aging parents, pets — all her life. And she has stopped trying to please everyone. “I just do not care anymore,” she said. “And it makes me a nicer person.”

“I no longer care if I skip the family holiday dinner,” wrote Leslie. “Most of you have undiagnosed trauma that I honestly just don’t want to deal with right now. Also: I no longer care about arm fat. About separating laundry into neat little piles of lights and darks. And if I want to eat half a box of cookies for breakfast, that’s none of anyone’s business. I do not care.”

“I no longer care that I haven’t dusted the house in a month,” Caroline wrote. “I no longer care that the towels in my guest bathroom don’t match. I no longer care that I forgot to wear earrings … again.”

The idea isn’t to stop caring about everything, Eliza’s email to her friends said. We still care about our loved ones, about staying healthy, about being kind in this crazy world. It’s more about taking the pressure off yourself when it comes to things that truly don’t matter, like a spotless house or a perfectly cooked meal. It’s time to prioritize what we need to feel our best at this stage of life, she told them.

Eliza had struck a nerve. The years of perimenopause and menopause can bring physical and emotional upheaval: Mood swings, brain fog, fatigue, insomnia, hot flashes, weight gain. The women of the We No Longer Care Club delivered.

 “I no longer care that you wanted something different for dinner than what I made,” Tina said. “I didn’t see you offer to cook dinner.”

Jan wrote: “I do not care that my husband thinks I’m crazy because I sleep under a down comforter with a fan blowing on me.”

 From Lisabeth: “I no longer care that I am a horrible speller. I no longer care that I like my dogs more than I like most people. I no longer care about hiding my age.” She continued, “Now, I realize why my mother was such a bear some days when I was a teenager. She was caring too much, and trying to please all of those around her. It must have been exhausting. Well, I just do not care. And I can’t tell you how much relief that brings.”                                                                                                                             

There’s freedom in no longer striving to meet someone else’s expectations. By the time you reach menopause, that freedom feels like a well-earned prize. It’s not  about letting yourself go; it’s about choosing your priorities and not allowing others to dictate them to you.

Here’s what I do care about, Eliza thought as she laughed over her friends’ replies. I care that my friends and I are aging with grace and dignity and humor, and that we are here for each other. Always.

And to hell with this bra.

_____________________

Sarah's story

And then it went pop 4  A true story, but a fairy-tale ending
(20.07.2025)

He had not been particularly handsome when he was young; already a little on the pudgy side, he was losing the hair on his crown.  His lack of self-confidence detracted as well from his aura.  But he found a book and read it, which taught him business skills, not according to the rules he had listened to with a deaf ear in his early days, at school and at church.  He had not learned much at school, and as for church, he dismissed that now as balderdash.  Unless, he reflected, it could be useful.  The book had taught him that almost anything could be useful.  
He profited from his readings.  In his business deals he was crafty.  And not over-scrupulous.  With the money he made, he invested in new schemes and bought properties.  He noticed that his aura had increased; other people, including women, began to sidle up to him.  And his tastes became more refined.  Not just any woman would do: he wanted them young, and definitely he wanted them blond.  Still surprised at himself, he found he could get them now.  Not always those of his own country, where women were better educated and thought themselves superior.  No, some of those foreign countries had a good supply, and what was more, if they didn't speak English that well, it would be easier to keep them under thumb.
He got himself a wife, and was getting richer by the month.  But he remained unsatisfied.  Then he met a terrific guy.  That was the way he put it: "a terrific guy."  Only slightly older than himself, he had already created a paradise in the Virgin Islands.  Or might one say, a virgin paradise in the islands.  There the women were all blond, and young.  Very young.  Whom the man generously shared with his friends, in return for other favours.  
With the permissive divorce laws of the modern age, he found it easy to replace his first wife with one younger and more beautiful, and then finally replace this one with a third.  He had by now amassed such a fortune that he was sure he would be able to capture the first office in the nation, especially with the help of good pal in Europe, whose country was skilled in manipulating the social media.  To his astonishment and rage, however, he was not elected.  He tried to get the position by force, with the help of his followers, but the country was not yet ready for a coup; there was public outcry and an attempt at prosecution.  
Money pays, however, as do political and other contacts, and he managed to avoid conviction, or at least, imprisonment.  And he put the four years' respite to good use, so that the next time round, he won the election by a comfortable margin.  By now he had a powerful internal ally in the church, in one particular church, along with his foreign friends.  "You won't have to vote again," he promised his followers.  And he was almost as good as his word.
He went straight to work.  Not to studying the international and national situations, or to trying to situate the needs of the country.  Rather, when he was not off relaxing with his favorite sport, he spent what was left of his time writing the decrees necessary to consolidate his power and please his friends, who all belonged to the upper 1%, as his followers all hoped one day to belong as well.  He had his own social media, appropriately named "Truth", eminently useful in that his main arms were lies and insults, and as his body thickened his ego grew.  He confided to the newspapers (those favorable to him, having managed to insure that the others, more critical, did not reach much of the public ear) that everyone loved him, thought him intelligent, said he was so handsome and believed him the greatest leader ever, so that even he himself began to believe in international consecration on a grand scale.  
Foreign peoples did not like him as much as his local admirers did, and foreign leaders did not always cooperate with his schemes.  Using his usual tactics, however, he managed to twist the truth to his own advantage.   His old friend got into trouble with the law, and he severed his ties.  He even said they should look into the guy's records.
His aura, or at least his self-esteem, blossomed.  But one day came a scandal he could not turn aside.  His old friend's records might be incriminating.  His raving contradictions did little for his credibility, but he still had his new friends, who turned right around and asserted that the records, after all, did not exist.  The scandal, however, would not go away.  He raved daily and his red face grew redder, his rages began to make people suspect his declarations, even among his own followers.  But even as the scandal expanded and his incoherent rages with them, so did his delusion of popularity and invincibility.  His ego ballooned until it filled the universe.
Until one day, at last, it popped.  Everything.  His delusion, his self-esteem, his sanity, his reign of office, his wide following, it all went pfft! in the repercussions of the scandal that no-one could sweep away.  Cleaning up the mess, however, took some time.
 

_____________________________________

Jackie's story

Something popped into my inbox

A video game, a promise and I started to dream    A certain amount of money was offered for playing a game and winning    Everyone wins it said.

I could buy another house, a flat in Paris or London or New York or well,  lower my sights a little maybe do up the bathroom and repaint the bedroom.  

A video game is  something I have never done as I’m too busy sewing  birds or suchlike.    So I clicked on the website thinking that at my age I could perhaps hit the jackpot.     But before I started to play I read through the blurb

First the explanation:
Explore ancient ruins, mystical forests, and the shadowy depths of a dreamworld where nightmares lurk.   Discover new creatures who guard and protect Lunacia’s secrets. Build a home, a town, a community, an army.

Lunacia (an imaginary place) was once a region where gods roamed the land,

The then population of Axies flew through the clouds, and swam the seas destroying everything.     After centuries of war, Lunacia is ripe for rebuilding.

Then

Pages and pages of very small print that I couldn’t enlarge for some reason – Lots of ifs and buts,  rules and regulations so I skipped lots of pages and  clicked validate and entered into the world of Axie Infinity

 

Loads of little creatures were swarming over my screen – green ones, yellow and blue ones purple spats and yellow eruptions – all shouting brandishing weapons and making squeaking noises with an occasional explosion and lots of dead creatures everywhere

A challenge is a challenge and after all this game and promise of a certain wealth did just pop into my life.  So I played and played the hours went by and dust accumulated – dishes went unwashed and we ate pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner

And I waited and waited the 6 weeks for the result – there I was every morning in my pyjamas  scrutinizing  the screen squinting in the early morning light –

Then another email popped in my inbox this time from my bank manager – you are overdrawn by -50,000€ - please rectify this matter asap.    There must be a mistake they have put a minus sign instead of a plus sign.    The game promised that I would win they said no losers – “everyone wins”… but written into  the small print each game you played cost money      This is the part I had skipped

Morale of the story; always read every word of the small print  and block out pop ups on your computer

_________________________________________

Incandescent Proposterous Yellow Deadly Flatulence Seaweed Drums Island

 Paula's story

The drums of the U.S. Military Band beat a brisk cadence as the parade passed the flag-bedecked grandstand in the American capital of Washington, D.C.

In the center of the grandstand, an obese man in a too-tight suit and a red made-in-China hat watched the spectacle, made to order in his honor, as he scarfed down a hamburger, then a hot dog, and, then, incongruously, a seaweed-wrapped rice & bean burrito. How preposterous, as he was fighting with everything he had to deny Asians and Mexicans, among others, access to the United States. And still, he was hungry. Hungry for power.  Hungry for world domination. Hungry for love, which he couldn’t articulate. After all, his father had never loved him, had belittled him at every turn, had only demanded complete fealty. And so, this man-made belittling monster demanded the same fealty of his women, his wives, his children, his subordinates.

Yet on this day, on his 79th birthday, during this grand parade — it also convienently coincided with the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Army—  he reveled in the moment. He was a god! Just like his great, big, beautiful Russian pal Putin! A parade in his honor, with all the soldiers and all the tanks and all the big, bright, beautiful things! He was so excited. As he applauded the spectacle, with his bright yellow hair, his weird orange skin, and his garish red hat, he looked like the hot portion of the color wheel. 

As the parade progressed, with the tanks, and the soldiers, and the bands, and all the military might he could afford to muster, he digested that immigrant-made burrito. Uh-oh. Suddenly, he leaned a bit to the right, and let loose a blast of deadly flatulence. The Yugoslavian woman next to him, an immigrant clothed immpecibly in a beige suit, flinched a bit, incandescent with embarrassment, yet continued to smile her tight, stiff little smile and wave her tight, stiff little wave. She had become used to such things. She had made peace with being the wife of a tyrant, a multimillionaire, a cheater, and an animal with no manners, no class. After all, she was the same, wasn’t she? She wanted only to deliver an heir. And where was that saintly heir? Oh, yes, there’s Barron, seated behind his father. Feeling the aftershocks of that epic immigrant-fueled fart, he had fainted dead away. 

It was easy to see this epic off-gassing as some kind of disgusting joke, laughable, worthy of mocking. And it was, all of those things. But like the entirety of this horrible little man’s twisted regime, it was also deadly serious. He did stupid, inane things, and people got hurt. And he continued not to care.

 The world could feel Barron’s disgust. We experience the stench every day. We reel. We are all Barron now. 

Jackie's story 

The drums beat slowly and regularly pounding deep sorrow into the hearts of those surrounding the coffin .    Yellow roses cast an incandescent glow as they were gently placed to send the corpse into  its final home.     The air was tainted by a natural flatulence,  a deadly stench from the seaweed that lined the dunes.   The beach covered in white foam,  angel shapes ready to catch the soul of the deceased and send it into another sphere.

I had arrived late – missing a turning, getting lost as usual with google maps taking a confusing back road but finally arriving at the chapel on the hill –  the crowd spilled out into the driveway      I was surprised to see so many people, the chapel was full – slipping in a side door I was overwhelmed by the packed seats and looking around at the mourning  crowd dressed in suits and dark clothes surprised I didn’t recognize anyone   She must have had a lot of friends.

I was there for my young neighbor Julie.  A tragic accident due to a propostperous deadly overdose – she who had loved the surf and sun out morning till night in the wild, so often I would see her running into the water and throwing herself to the wind her long blonde hair tangled and salt kissed,    She had always turned to wave with a big smile-  on her face and returning wet and salty for a morning coffee at my kitchen table.  

  The Minister spoke, relating a life story – of banking and success and large families and grand children and great grandchildren – finishing off with  “we’ll all miss Mrs Smith”.     I realized with a jolt that I was at the wrong funeral –

I waited until the end and slipped out to the adjoining island giving onto the  beach  – there was a white awning with flowers strewn and friends who I recognized in brightly coloured clothes singing my neighbours favorite songs  I was finally able to say goodbye  - 

What a wonderful service I commented  and everyone agreed heartily.

 

Patrice's story

The summer I graduated from high school, a terrible year for me, a group of my friends decided to go to a cabin that belonged to someone’s family - I don’t remember which friend’s family it belonged to, for an after-graduation party.  In a pitch at sophistication, lobsters were bought, wine smuggled, promises made to be careful, and off we went.  None of us had cars then - maybe not even driving licenses - so we made our way to upstate NY via train with backpacks and coolers, doing our best to mask our youthful excitement with clever banter - we were a clever bunch - and feigned nonchalance at this grown-up like outing.

We trooped like scouts to the cabin.  It was on a hill that sloped down into a grand lake.  Pine trees, Sugar Maple, and my mother’s favorite, Birch, peppered the lot.  The preposterously named cabin was huge - three bedrooms and a living room with an enormous fireplace, a kitchen attached to a screened porch, and a pantry.  The girls claimed the room with an attached bathroom citing flatulent boys with their smells and fart jokes and the boys took the bedroom across the hall at the top of the stairs saying they would protect us should the need arise.   The third bedroom, painted a deadly shade of yellow and smelling of mothballs, was left to its own devices, the door firmly closed.

I was lonely among this group of friends.  The same age, the shared passion for theatre and performance, the longing to find a way in the world bound us but history, both personal and world history, made us different.  

 

I had never eaten lobster and was unaware that they were thrown into a pot of boiling water to cook.  I thought Ricky and Dennis were teasing me until the others chimed in and said they were telling the truth.  But before they could be cooked, they would race.  I was horrified.  A canning kettle boiled on the stove, steam rising, waiting like a giant lobster hell.  The bands were removed from the claws, and a starting line was decided upon.  Lobsters were set down, shouting began, and the prehistoric creatures scrabbled across the green vinyl, unaware of their fate.  I was appalled.  These friends who protested war, fought for human rights, went on strike to protest the unfair treatment of animals, were perfectly willing to first play, then boil, then devour the lobsters.  

I peeled potatoes and shucked corn on the front porch.  As far away as I could get from the rest without actually leaving.  I sweated my future and tried to soothe myself with the evening sounds of crickets, night birds, and the whisper of the upper branches of the pines.  I refused to watch the lobsters being slid into the pot, but set the table and sat down with everyone else.  The horror was not just the boiling of the lobsters.  It was in the eating, too.  The cracking of the shells, the sucking, the butter coated fingers,  the boundless enjoyment struck me as excessive off putting.

The center of the table was piled high with lobster shells, the smell beginning to nauseate me.  We sat telling terrible jokes, exchanging horror stories of encounters with teachers, auditions that went sideways, lost leotards, and scary subway encounters.  

Someone said we should wash off in the lake.  We could swim in our underwear, bathing suits if we had them or naked - with a lift and wiggle of adolescent eyebrows.  My relief at getting away from the crustaceous pile got me up and out of the kitchen and down the stairs to the lake faster than anyone.  I peeled off my dress and walked into the lake, cementing my reputation as fearless.  The others followed with whoops and yelps.  It was lovely in the water, the night sky studded with stars nearly invisible in the city.  We began to quiet, to talk softly.  I was floating on my back when Ricky said, “Move your arms back and forth”.  When I did, a lovely sparkle dotted my skin then faded.  As I looked over the lake, I could see the others dressed in the luminous algae creating incandescent sculptures against the backdrop of the night sky.  

We floated until we were shivering from the cold.  Finally making our way back to the cabin to wrap ourselves in towels and blankets, sipping mugs of tea and cocoa, to talk of the future.

 

Geraldine's story

September had arrived. George and Jennifer had chosen a small island on the North West coast of Japan for their honeymoon.

After a 10 hour trip on the plane, they finally landed in Sapporo and spent the night in the local Hilton Hôtel where they didn’t even appreciate the comfort, as they fell asleep within minutes and stayed in Morpheus’ arms for another solid 10 hours.

A luxurious continental breakfast was brought to their room with a choice of coffee or as many local teas they could even think of, served in the most cute china bowls you could imagine. 

While George was under the shower, Jennifer seized the opportunity to release some winds due to the food they had been given on the plane, causing severe flatulence.  It was OK : she could hear the water dashing from the shower, so she was relieved as she knew George wouldn’t  perceive the loud preposterous drum concert that was going on in her bowells and filling the  room with some kind of disorganized sounds… maybe Japanese variations ?  After all, it was their honeymoon : and there’s an appropriate way to behave in these ciscumstances.

When George came back to the room in his handsome yellow silk  dressing gown, Jennifer was holding her soothed and now supple tummy in her hands, giving it a little massage.

-       Are you all right, asked George ? Do you have a stomach ache ? 

-       Oh no, I’m fine thank you.  This is just my morning routine getting everything back into place after a long night.

-       Oh ! Good !  As we have a long bus journey yet to get to the ferry.

The bus to Wakanai was due at 10 o’clock. Jennifer had plenty of time to take her shower, get dressed and put on the right shoes for walking and traveling.

They were lucky to get in the front seats and where amazed at the fact that the people getting on it after them would bow in a very polite manner.  Japan was certainly not England : people were polite and well behaved ! The landscape was very green, rugged, with extinct volcanos scattered here and there.  The sky was deep blue, not a cloud to be seen.  The perfect weather for a honeymoon.

There wasn’t far to walk from the bus to the ferry, which they managed quite well.  Sitting on the deck of the ferry, they could see the Rishiri Island and it’s big extinct volcano sitting in the middle of it. How lucky to live on an island with only 5.000 inhabitants and wonderfull scenery all around.  The sea was turquoise, and looking down to it, they could observe the incandescent seewead at a small depth.  Waouh ! never seen anything so astounding, accompanied by this very quiet and calm population : the travelers weren’t talking, or very sotto voce. 

The ferry reached the haven, everybody stepped off and got on buses or their bicycles and George and Jennifer looked at each other, smiling, happy and Jennifer let out :

«  We’ve done it George, I wasn’t quite sure we would make it : afterall we are both over 90 years old now. And deadly.  Love you ! »

 

Annemarie's story

 

 

Out of Sorts. (Dedicated to Patrice, who was 'out of sorts' one day and wants a pet.)

 

My friend said she was sad and out of sorts today;

She'd stay at home and patch a broken toupée.

 I asked her where she'd lost them and she replied:

"Since full moon my 'sorts' have gone on holiday."

 I searched a dozen  shops for every sort of 'sorts'

But no one knew, no one cared and no new imports.

Think of something new to get her back on side.

I wracked my brains and scratched my head

To  cheer her up and rouse her from her bed.

A pet...a cat, a dog, why not a...hippopotamus!

Now you may think that's quite preposterous

But circus-trained, this happy hippo was not deadly

A placid, plodding nature made her very friendly.

With yellow-painted nails and tiny swishing tail

She'd paddle in the pond, polka-dot bikinied.

A daily diet of luscious grass was everything she needed...

...and every other week - fresh delicious seaweed...

...and cakes and ale, cabbages and errant crumbs.

Then came the rumbling sounds like very distant drums,

Which troubled her with never-ending flatulence.

 

For my friend, I spent my time and my inheritance -

To rouse her sorts, to raise her spirits, her equilibrium.

And was she gushing thanks from her Elysium?

 No! ...Incandescent  with rage she loudly roared

That I had landed her with such a smelly, farting ward.

Her grass and garden gone, the sofa broken,

Of her 'sorts' she wished she'd never spoken.

 

 

 

 

 

Someone went to bed - someone woke up

 

 

Mary Morgan's poem

Ghost Brush

Katsushika Ōi, Houkasi

I curl up in my warm comforter

and close my eyes.

But I feel a presence.

I stare at the strange painting

that came in the mail this morning.

Who could have sent it?

There’s an ancient inscription on the back:

Courtesans Showing Themselves to the Strollers through a Grille —

an extremely rare work

by Katsushika Ōi — Ghost Brush.

Ghost Brush,

were you the one peering through the grille,

sketching the courtesans

as they shimmered in flickering lamplight?

Dark shadows

played across their powdered faces.

You risked being seen.

You risked death.

For years you were invisible —

a daughter,

an assistant,

a ghost behind your father’s name.

The customers look in.

The courtesans look back.

Through the cage-like grille —

seeing,

being seen

in the marketplace of desire.

I look deeper into the painting.

Suddenly, I feel the red-light lamps

burning hot against my skin.

I see the unmoving faces —

painted, pale,

trapped behind the bars.

Their kimonos bloom

with butterflies and swallows,

freedom on silk, that can never fly.

People jostle past me,

hungry eyes pressed to the bars.

I stumble in the shadows.

I clutch the grille

and look up —

She is staring back.

A white-painted face.

Blank.

Hopeless.

And yet —

a flicker of wonder

at seeing me.

The bright moonlight wakes me.

But still —

the courtesans are watching,

still showing themselves

to the strollers,

still waiting

behind the grille,

hundreds of years later

 

Annemarie's story

     Someone went to bed....someone woke up

I pulled back the crisp white sheet and climbed into bed. Freshly  showered, face scrubbed shiny I lay back hoping I could sleep deeply this time.  When I go to bed in the evening I'm sometimes so tired I think, or I hope, that this time I will sleep dreamlessly... or at least have peaceful, entertaining dreams as when I was young. But after a while I'm having disturbing thoughts; many nights  I'm up at two in the morning drinking a tisane that's like mown grass. Then it gets worse; my throat is dry so I make a peanut butter sandwich and regret it as soon as I've finished it. Of course I can put 'doing the ironing at 2.30 a.m.' as a positive. So many nights just lying there, letting little problems and worries loom large in the dark, desperately waiting for daylight and normality to arrive.

  Well it's daylight now as I lie in bed but  I can't  stop dwelling on a remark my so-called friend (of 57 years)  made a few weeks ago. It is true what I'd  heard recently from a novel- " Age and disease and death may destroy our physical being but it is other people who get inside us and damage our hearts and minds."    Then a memory of my father's wisdom comes back to me.  As a child I was bullied during my schooldays  and Dad told me to say  "Sticks and stones can break my bones  but words will never hurt me," whenever I was teased or bullied. It got me through school and now I have a greater concern than a few cruel words from a friend. I am frightened. I must distract myself as. I grope for my iPad and fiddle with the buttons until I find the history podcast Richard set up this morning when he came to see me.

  Mussolini - now there was someone really evil - my friend, well she is just unthinking, a bit controlling too. Must stop ruminating over that .. back to Mussolini....didn't know he went to Nazi Germany...

"Wake up " I hear distantly and I'm wondering what happened when Mussolini met Hitler.

   So I did really sleep. And then I see the nurse, colours so bright, auburn hair. She gently helps me to sit up. Now I'm properly awake, no more looking through a dark smoky black veil, no more feeling my way around the house. Vision restored in my one good eye in just a morning ...and what a good sleep I had. Perhaps I'll just read about Mussolini.

 

Paula's story

As she tumbled into bed, her teeth brushed, her face washed, her pajamas buttoned, she glowed with the success of the night. It had been a night of firsts: the first time she defied her parents — although they probably would never know; after all, she did make curfew, she’s not that dumb. It was the first time she wore eyeliner, applied in secret backstage before the cast party, her first cigarette, her first taste of beer, her first kiss! She snuggled deeper into the covers, thinking of that kiss. And she wondered if Elena was thinking of it, too.

Elena. Just the sound of her name made Susan press her face deeper into her pillow and giggle with glee. She was the prettiest girl in school, or at least Susan thought so. A senior, Elena seemed to be everywhere on campus. And she had noticed Susan, a lowly freshman of all people, at the party to celebrate the last performance of this year’s school play.

Susan was still tingling, still a little in awe. She had spent the entire spring season sourcing fabrics and ribbons and notions, sewing patterns, fitting her classmates into the costumes that helped create the on-stage world of Romeo and Juliet. Elena, of course, had played Juliet, and Susan had been practically a bundle of nerves every time she helped her into the cumbersome outfits — or out of them, backstage, between scenes.

Susan knew she would never, just never, get to sleep! There were too many feelings, too many sensations, too many memories. The way Elena stared at her from across the room. (Although she couldn’t believe she, Susan, had been the subject of that piercing gaze.) The way Elena nodded slightly, smiled, then pointed to the hallway. The way Elena steered Susan toward the bathroom, then the way her arm brushed against Susan’s as they both reached for the handle to the door. The way Elena laughed, then pushed Susan into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. They way she shoved Susan up against the sink, holding her wrists, bending toward her until all Susan could smell was her shampoo, a faint scent of a musky cologne, a whiff of starch from Elena’s crisp white shirt.

And when Elena’s lips found Susan’s, Susan thought she was going to just die. This was actually happening, something she had dreamed about for so long. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as Elena kissed her, softly at first, then roughly, thrusting her tongue into Susan’s surprised but willing mouth, moving her hands across Susan’s small breasts, hiking up Susan’s skirt to lift her onto the bathroom counter.

Just as suddenly, it was over. Someone knocked on the door, and Elena broke away, winked at Susan, pulled her off the counter, put a finger to her lips, then yanked open the door, drawing Susan out, arm in arm, giggling, as if they were just two high school girls sharing a laugh at a party.

And then, Elena disappeared into the crowd. And Susan’s older brother was at the door, come to drive his sister home.

Susan sighed into the darkness. She was in love; it had finally happened! She couldn’t wait for school on Monday. She knew Elena’s schedule; she knew they shared one of the four lunch periods. They would eat together every day. They would tell each other everything. They would go shopping together, have sleepovers at each other’s houses. Sleepovers! Oh, my. Susan grabbed her old teddy bear and hugged him tightly. Her life was about to change. She could hardly believe it. She was so happy.

As Saturday morning dawned, sunny and clear, Susan threw off her covers and bounded out of bed with an energy she had never felt before. She just couldn’t stop smiling.

Across town, another set of bedcovers, tousled and warm, moved slightly as two heads stirred. Elena woke first, burrowed deeper into the familiar warmth of Dawn’s naked body, and smiled as she recalled the bewildered ecstasy of the freshman who had had such a crush on her all spring.

What was her name again?

 

Patrice's story

He went to bed every night. But first, he hung his clean and pressed pajamas on the door outside the bathroom—the idea of moisture on his lovely pajamas made him shudder.  

He brushed his teeth.  Flossed.  Used mouthwash from the Baccarat decanter he stored it in.  He missed Uli - it was Uli’s idea to use the crystal decanter for the mouthwash, though he was making fun of Kurt when he made the suggestion. Kurt liked the way it looked.

He did his skin protocol - five steps - gazing at himself in the mirror - life as it was now, as it would always be.  He wiped the condensation from the mirror and then draped the microfiber cloth beneath the sink, out of sight.

He slid into the cool wrinkle-free pajamas, running his hands down the front appreciating the feel of the cloth.  He had already turned down the bed - a perfect inviting triangle - a lonely single corner of the bed.

When Uli left, Kurt had moved the TV. into the bedroom - where for hours Kurt stared dry-eyed, suffering at the 47” screen, hating every minute, refusing sleep because sleep brought dreams and dreams brought Uli.

The sheets, crisp cotton, ironed, resisted him momentarily, then gradually softened.  He turned to his left side - 1:30 - almost, almost fully down the pathway to sleep, he fell.  He imagined Uli, his dark eyebrows like wings, his lovely skin smooth from the shower, uncovered because he refused to wear pajamas.  Kurt put a pillow beneath his arm.  Uli was not there.

Morning like a slap - the light from the window across his face.  

Uli was still gone.  There was a TV in his bedroom.

Someone woke up.

 

 Jackie's story

I don’t really believe in ghosts, afterlife, and happenings of a psychic nature.   But, I must tell you about an frightening experience I had the other night.     I went to bed after a heavy dinner and perhaps a little too much to drink.     I felt a little light headed and drove home through a slight fog – looking forward to putting on my pajamas and laying my head on the pillow for a good nights sleep.

When I lay down , strangely enough the room started to turn round and round rather dramatically.   I watched the beams in my room close in on me and the bed started to spin uncontrollably.   I was feeling rather ill by this time and but managed to see that the direction the bed was shifting.   Seesawing  from right to left as if it was alive I felt myself going from one side of the bed to the other.  I felt it tip on its side and throwing me to the left side and I had to  clutch the bedclothes tightly to stop falling off .     This bed is bewitched I thought and as I tried to sit up some unknown being held my shoulders down by force and stopped me and my head seemed glued to the pillow. What was happening all around me and all of a sudden without notice the room started to shudder – like an earthquake – the stone walls grated against each other and the fillings between the joints started to fall off onto the floor and cover the floorboards with cement    Soon I was spitting out the sand as it poured into my mouth  – the bed sheets weighed heavily on my body.  I could feel grit in my mouth.  I tried to spit it out but my tongue was thick and stuck to the roof of my mouth.     Everything was so topsy turvy that I didn’t have time to think about the situation and understand  about what was happening.

   I wondered if there was a dead animal in the room All of a sudden a white silhouette appeared at the foot of my bed.   Floaty and indistinct accompanied by this terrible smell – a dead fox or even a bird in the forest smells bad but this smell was overpowering and nauseating.   A voice out of the blue –I am Sylvia a ghost from years gone by    I used to live in this house until a terrible accident took my life.   I always slept on the right side of the bed and got ill, had perpetual accidents and finally died.     This is a warning as you seem to be a nice lady – do not sleep on the right side which is the wrong side for women-  the side that causes nightmares and sickness and other awfulness.  Did you know that men most always choose the right side of a double bed and women the left.    I have tried to shake you into reality but now I’ll be able to go in peace as I think you have learned your lesson.

I quickly moved over to the left side.    Everything calmed down and  from now on I shall only sleep on the left side - 

 

Geraldine's story    

She slammed the door, rushed to the bathroom, had a long recomforting pee, brushed her
teeth and got into her nice cosy bed, under her warm quilt, and cuddled into her own arms !
Sometimes a personal cuddle is easier than love with another person !
What had happened to her ? Why had her day been so hectic and exhausting ? Why was
she feeling so tired and miserable ?
The year before, when she’d had left Burgundy to go back to her house in the States, she
had had the shock of her life. As she and her husband were heading back to their sweet
home – a very warm wooden log house – they stopped the car in front of it, got out, gave a
warm eye to the garden and the trees around them, stretched out after the long trip back
home ready for a long sleep from the jetlag and opened the door.
They were greeted by a stinking smell that caught their throats and immediately caught sight
of the disaster : water everywhere ! When they stepped inside, the water was over their
anckles, molded patches everywhere, all their books warped on the shelves, the carpett half
floatting between ground and ceiling.
A cry rose up, with a gasp ! Hell ! what’s been going on in here !
Then the phone rang :
- Hello ! Ah it’s you Bill.
- Hello ! You’re back ! I wanted to call you as quickly as I could ! When I came in to put
the heating on and get your house ready for you to come back to, I found it flooded.
Investigating, I found that the water pipe leading to the bathroom had a major leak. I
don’t know when it started, but as you can see, the damage is tremendous ! I don’t
know wether it can help, but I’ve found a 2 bedroom flat for you in town where you
can settle for a couple of weeks already. I’ll be around in 5 minutes.
She threw herself into her husband’s arms holding him tight : it was as if she had let go, she
would have fallen straight to the ground ! And they stood there, embraced for a long long
time that would have lasted forever if Bill’s car hadn’t stopped in front of the house. He
walked towards them and gave them a huge hugh : in this situation, hughs are better than
words.
Things settled : they stayed a fourtnight in the place Bill had found for them, they got a price
for the house, they went there everyday with cardboard boxes filling them with books,
notes, pots, jars, plates, cuttelry, pans, clothes, her jewellery, his tennis rackets, their
bedclothing, their pillows, and so forth…
They found a new place to live in, smaller, but that was OK considering their age. It was
nearer her husband’s children (already grown up), in a bigger city, with more libraries, music
halls, a University thus young people around, everything to start a new life.

And now, back in France for the ritual 3 months there, she felt lost. Was she afraid of going
back home to a new disaster ? Did she feel disconnected from her local friendships with
people that hadn’t gone through a trauma like hers ? Or was she just too tired to get herself
together ? Everything seemed so far, so inacessible ? Did she need more compassion than
everyone was giving her ? She didn’t know. All she knew was ho tired she felt, how difficult
she found it to pick up a bit of strength to move, to get enthusisastic ? to want, really want
something ? Was she having a depression after all these sorrows and changes in her life ?
She didn’t know. She didn’t understand. She felt lost.
She was getting agressive with everyone around her. Couldn’t hear what they wanted to get
through to her. Would’nt take their compassion, was acting like a capricious child : self
centered, not available, wanting love but not seeing that it was all around her, wanting to
get away, get away !
Her family and friends were worried, very worried. What could they do for her ? Because
whatever they did was never right or never enough ! And after that evening when everyone
thought she was doing better, the clash ! More agressivity ! She had walked out, slammed
the door and gone to bed !
As her friend woke up in the morning and got out of bed, she very deeply hoped the day
would be better than the previous one , hoping for a real connection !