Dear Diary.

Wednesday, December 06,20006.




Dear Diary,



I have been writing and receiving diary entries for over a year now and feel like I know this person so well. We have built up a great friendship and she is so grateful for every reply I send her. I know too that her past relationships with some men have well affected her mind and confused her feelings. Many times she sits and thinks too hard and her mind wanders and she feels the effects. She writes from her small compact bed-room that has only a single bed and a small table where she can only barely sit in front of her laptop computer, where she enjoys her writing and solitude.

Photos adorn the walls of her beautiful chestnut horse and in each photo she is at its side, and her small pale face shows so much love for this sensual animal. She has to squeeze past the small set of draws to ease herself out of this room in which she feels so safe.

She has poured her heart and soul into every written word but afterwards she feels like the rapid force of a river that has just calmed and the reflections of ripples settle her to the core.
She hates anyone to be around her when her depression is at its worst but she has great calming effects from her four legged friend; that she loves more than any human being. The feel of his velvet nuzzle, his hot breath next to her skin and the long beige mane she frantically strokes, seem to influence her, then the depressed state disappears without a trace and time seems to stand still. These are rare occasions. Other times she is alone and settles for her own company.

“Watch your hair you are getting it all tangled around your fingers”, I said.
“Why do you feel more settled with you own company then”?
“I can think better on my own and I have no distractions and I really hate people seeing me like this.”
“You don’t give me that impression when I call on you though, you always seem to enjoy my company”.
“That’s because I trust you my friend, and you will sit and listen without interrupting me. Others like to advise and control me and that makes me more depressed and why I seek my own company”.
“What are you doing with that belt in your hand”.
“I just like the feel of it. It's covered with silver paper and feels good”.
“Look at the floor though, you have scraped all that silver stuff off that belt and it looks like a carpet of silver dust. Why have you done that”?
“I, I don’t know. I didn’t know that I had even done anything? What's happening to me? Last week I unravelled all my knitting. You know, that red jumper I was about to finish off when I felt like it. My God! The belt is yours isn’t it. I’ll buy you another one my friend. I'm so sorry. Really I am so very sorry”.
“Don’t worry about it. It was only cheap and the buckle kept coming loose on it. That’s why I took it off in the first place”.



“I can’t seem to find words just now”.
So much racing inside that she cannot even begin to express. She is hurting but all that’s visible is that she is still getting on with things. She also says that she is okay but the underlying meaning shows that she is not.


She prays that she can be heard without judgement and obligation. She also wishes that she could really convey her feelings to the extent of others feeling her pain to understand just what she is going through, but she can’t and others don’t. When her thoughts find no outlet then her feelings choose their own path. She feels like being towed to the very top of a roller-coaster with a speed that could send her in a variety of directions.

“Shit”, she says. The temporary feeling of suspension that hides in the centre of the mind. She wishes too that others could hear the symphony-of-a-thousand-tiny-violins playing, but perhaps not.

She’s sorry and scared and hopes that it gets easier. She knows it’s a feeling, she knows too that it’s a trick of the mind. It can be overcome, yet when it’s this strong and overwhelming her thoughts blacken through their own dammed hopelessness. Then she’s scared.
She struggles to remember, it will pass and that thought makes her more afraid with a more prolonged version of panic that is well hidden and no obvious outward signs.
She does knows that it’s all in the mind. When it consumes her it gets a strangle hold deep within and then it’s difficult to function. She says, “I manage”.

Her attention span is ridiculously minimal at the moment but she’s constantly trying to find something to slow the process down. She likes to write, it can break the mental pattern.
She struggles too with finding sufficient inspiration and motivation to write. She is tired. So very, very tired. Being scared and ashamed is certainly nothing that she is proud to share. She says. “Just how the hell do you explain chaos existing in emptiness? How do you explain when it bursts forth in multiple emotional directions.
“I don’t know my friend. I’ve tried many times. I mostly stick with hiding it best I can”.


950 words approx.

The Illuminated Window.

One cold and dreary damp evening, I noticed a large mansion house. The house was illuminated with an abundance of lights. I had never seen such dazzlement before.

I crouched below the windowsill alongside the thorny hedge, in the grounds of this beautiful abode. The pale green plush velvet curtains were draped to either side of the window and gave me a full view of this luxurious drawing room.

My eyes first sighted a glorious red leather Chesterfield suite. My bones ached at the site. How I could have just curled up on that soft shiny suite and dreamed dreams forever.

My eyes had flitted across the spacious room. It was full of expensive antique furniture. I also saw a bowl of fruit which was set on a silver salver; on the side of a mahogany corner unit. Apples, bananas, grapes, oranges and peaches made an awesome display. My mouth ached for the taste of such fruit and my belly somersaulted at the thought.

What kind of world was I in, that me a mere tramp with no possessions, home, or family, has caught this glimpse of a non-mirage of beauty. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. My damp dirty clothing stuck to my body. I had a longing to be in a warm, dry, comfortable place.

This longing had been with me for sometime now. I had even contemplated on taking my own life. But something in my head stops me.

As I gazed around the exquisite room, a photograph hung on the chimney breast wall displaying a young man in uniform. My body was shaking by now from my head to my toes. I wondered, was I going down with something.

The face in the photograph seemed to stare right through me. Panic set in me. It isn't possible, I remember thinking. By this time I had gone crashing through the prickly hedge, where I had previously been kneeling.

When I awoke, I was no longer peering from the outside in. I was now inside this luxurious drawing room. My eyes met face to face, with the same man that I had seen in the picture frame. He was standing over me now, in the flesh.

I began crying uncontrollably. Within seconds he too began sobbing. We just stared into each others eyes. ''Yes, he said, I know who you are''?

Everything from the past came flooding back. This was my long lost son I had not seen for twenty years. His mother and me were so in love, we wanted to spend our lives together. Alas, her father wouldn't allow it.

Maggie, who was Tony's mother, was eighteen at the time she conceived my son. She was from a wealthy background and I was a mere farm labourer. Maggie's parents helped in the upbringing of our son. They had a great influence over her and constantly rowed about her marrying me.

During that month of June in the seventies, they forbade her to see me again. When I eventually called at her home, all the furniture had been covered with white sheets. Unknown to me they had gone abroad to live. I never set eyes on my son or girl friend again.

Tony, my son, had been listening attentively throughout. He said that his mother had always talked well of me and always said that she would never love anyone else.

My life as a vagabond has now been long gone. I am catching up on those long lost years I was without my son. I know I cannot make up for the years Tony had not been fathered, but I will endlessly do my best. Now I am living and working along side of Tony and my life is more than fulfilled. My love for Maggie had never ceased. She had died, five years ago. I believe she made sure I went to this place to ensure a new life and new beginning, with our son Tony.

The Bullied And The Bullies.

"You'd better give me my fxxxing two quid today, Billy boy.'' Christopher Dyson shouted, in a threatening manner.

Billy replied, ''I'll have no dinner again if you take my money.'' Tough! You little shit, hand it over now''. Christopher, then lashed out at Billy with his foot and he fell to the ground. He managed to stand after a few seconds and threw the money down. Billy slowly limped away whilst wiping his tears on the sleeve of his dirty jacket.

At the other end of the playground a group of boistrous children began chanting, ''Billy boy, Billy boy, whose a stupid silly boy.'' Suddenly a well built girl ran the length of the yard and grabbed Billy's arm and violently teared his jacket sleeve from the seam. Billy hobbled away screaming.

He could not stand up to the bullies, even the girls were as vicious as some of the boys. The bullying had gone on since he began his new school term and was getting worse. The other children could not help him as Christopher and his mates would do the same to them, and they too were scared to death. Billy was being raped of his sanity and it had to end pretty soon.

The heat in the classroom was unbearable. It was not surprising, as the classroom window wouldn't open. Someone had used super glue to ensure it stayed that way. Some of the pupils began disrupting the lesson by throwing whatever objects lay infront of them. Pens and rulers amongst them. The teacher had experienced this kind of behaviour often from her class of thirteen -year -olds.

''Christopher, how many times do I have to tell you. I'm sick and tired of your unruly behaviour. Stand outside the head's office now''.

Billy entered the classroom at 11.00. ''Billy, where is your uniform, you cannot come into school wearing clothes like that. You know too well it's against the school rules.'' ''I'll wear what I bloody like''. Miss Taylor was horrified. Billy had never spoken in that tone to her before. ''Go and join Christopher Dyson in the corridor right now, the head can deal with you too''. In a flash Billy produced a knife from his trouser pocket and held it at her throat. Call that bloody Dyson in hear, now.''

Miss Taylor was petrified and imediately opened the door and shouted Christopher to come back in the class. He walked back into the class with a huge grin on his face. Billy dived in front of him and waved the blade in his face. Christopher's face drained and his complexion turned sallow.

''Miss, you sit down over there and be quiet''. ''Dyson, do you feel scared now''. Billy was playing with the blade in different areas on his face and slowly guiding the knife whilst putting a little preasure on at the same time. ''Billy, put the knife away, you've proved your point, yes I'm scared, bloody scared''.

''Billy, I'm frightened, please let me go home'', cried Sue. ''You two, move the desks and chairs and let Sue out. She would'nt harm a fly. She's not like you lot''. After she had left they barricaded the door again. ''Billy, please I'm begging you, I won't bother you again and I'll make sure no one else does either''. He pleaded. ''You have to say that now I'm holding a knife to you face and none of your mates to back you up''. ''I swear Billy, I'm not telling you lies. Even my dad said this morning if I don't change he and my mum are going to put me in care and I don't want that. You can ask them yourself if you don't believe me. Honest it's the truth''.

Miss Taylor arose from her seat and slowly walked toward Billy and told him to put the knife down. She told him that she believed that Christopher was telling the truth. She also told Billy that threatening with a knife was just as serious as when he was being bullied and this was not the way to solve his problem anyway.

Billy slowly handed the knife over to Miss Taylor and sobbed into his hands. I'm so sorry miss, he blubbed. I can't take any more of the threats and gibes I've been getting. Next time I'll just kill myself. Miss Taylor put her arms around him and Christopher followed with tears streaming down his face too. Miss Taylor led them out of the classroom into the corridor....




previous chapter entry : The Environmental Demon's

The Environmental Demon.

I sat rigid in my armchair, I was too scared to move. They, were trying to get in. The holiday caravan home I was staying in sounded like a bulldozer in its last actions of ripping apart a building. I decided to crawl along the pink-carpeted floor. They, outside couldn't have known I was here alone. I was determined to keep my head. I turned the volume up on the television set and curled up into a ball like a scared kitten, back on that cold carpeted floor.

My mind raced back to when I was nine year old. I was scared to death then too. That nightmarish night when forked lightening and the torrential rain had scared the living daylight out of me. That horrible night, I had seen the flickering lights and the fittings sway back and forth; forming shadows that danced across the room.

That night my stepfather had dragged me from my bed and down the staircase. He pushed me into the pitch black cupboard, underneath the staircase. I heard the key turn in the lock. I had shared that small black space, with a musty odour for what seemed like hours. I can still hear the rumbling sounds and well remember thinking I was going to die.

My stepfather was sent to prison soon after that incident for cruelty and neglect. My mother too had suffered at his violent hands, and spent a year in a psychiatric hospital and ended her own life in there.

The time had come to take the drastic decision to arm myself, before they, outside, resorted to their drastic steps to eliminate me. I donned on my black plastic raincoat and knee length boots. I took hold of my brown wooden handled brolly, with a razor-sharp edge. This was my weapon against the outside force; that had been hounding me for the long weary hours I had endured.

I flung open the black metal door and pointed the razor-edge of the brolly. Suddenly! The howling wind and the treacherous wet weather engulfed the inside of the holiday home like a vicious tornado. They, were trapped inside. The environmental demons. I was at last free and alive.

Liquid Burn.

She turned the key in the rusty lock, her head full of the orders she would yet again complete. Sue had owned the factory since her father had died many years ago. As a young girl her father often took her to the factory. He would give her jobs in the office and pieces of wrapping paper to practice wrapping rock. Sue was always willing to please her dad. Sue's mother worked in an office at the other side of town. So Sue's dad was only too pleased to have extra time with his daughter. Sue had learned all aspects of the rock trade in those early years.

Sue, later had a daughter who married and lived in Canada. This helped Sue's business tremendously, as she began exporting her rock to a company based out there. Sue employed eight women and six men in her factory. The women wrapped and rolled the rock whilst some of the men prepared the boiling. Others worked in the packing room; making boxes and stacking completed orders onto a forklift truck.

The male sugar boilers would lift their scalding hot toffee in their scorched torn gloves and place the boiling into a batch-roller. It would then cool down to stay at the set temperature. The solid rock bundle would then be pulled from one end by the sugar boiler and spun out to the required width. Another person would then continue to roll the rock onto the chalk dusted cold slab, until the rock had cooled. The women then began rolling the rock with their hands until they could no longer reach the rest of the rows. Then with rolled up sleeves with their bare arms, rolled the full lengths of the hot rock until cooled. Another person used rock shears and a piece of wood measuring the same size as the rock, and quickly cut across the rows. They were then scooped up and laid down to form small mountains across the newly swept slab, for others to wrap.

Sometimes a customer insisted that the wrapped rock contained views. These would often slow the process of wrapping. They were placed under the stick of rock then wrapped in the cellophane so that the views displayed the town they were made in. Some days the workers also held their own competitions to while away the hours. On either side of the slab, two women would begin wrapping from the mountain pile. When finished would move onto the next until the whole boiling had disappeared. The winner was the one who wrapped the most piles of rock.

The workers worked long hours from early dusk until six each evening. They wore white headscarves to cover their hair. Even the men had to conform to the rule. They also wore starched white coats and by the time they arrived home they all smelled as sweet as the toffee they had made.

The busy workforce also had to ensure strict hygiene rules. The floors were regularly swept and mopped, but did not stop droppings of toffe and puddles of water.

One day the floor had been so saturated whilst making glass lollies that Sue armed with her jug of boiling liquid, slipped and landed on her back. It stuck to her like glue, causing severe burns over her body and face.

Two years after that horrific accident, the rock factory was sold to new owners. Sue had numerous skin grafts but did not recover mentally. Today she is still in a secure place in a mental health unit, miles from her beloved factory.

A Voice For Me.

I'm strapped and secured into my manual wheelchair. Thankfully, my escort is fourteen -year old Nicola, with a mind of a twenty year old. She's my cousin and best friend. Some people say that I'm good looking with my shiny red glints, short hairstyle and contrasting brown eyes. My complexion is fair and I'm petite in stature.

I get really really frustrated with people who think I'm a boy. Surely if they really looked at me; they would know I'm a girl. It's obvious that they see the wheelchair first. Another major insult is that people talk to my carer and ignore me as though I was invisible. I know that my speech is limited but they will not give me the chance to even try.

Another gripe, take yesterday for an example; Nicola and me were chatting on a bus drive to town. The lady who was sitting in the front seat opposite me spoke to Nicola and stated that she thought I must be hard work. Nicola told her in an agressive tone that I was not hard work, but others around me were. She also told her how much she enjoyed my company. I don't hear other children being told they are hard work, but I often hear it.



Do they think I'm an alien from another planet or what? I've a good brain in my head for thoughts and feelings. Only a body that doesn't conform to instruction. I could run rings around people like them and not with my legs either.

Nicola also ensures that I join in all the games and activities. Most weeks we attend the local sports centre for children with a disability. Another evening we go to the school youth club.



Shop till you drop. This is Nicola's favourite quote. We are never out of one. I'm beginning to think I'm in a maze of shops and end where I begun. It's great fun all the same.

In my home there are many devices that keep me from being bored. Yes! I easily bore if not stimulated. I have loads of cd's and a karaoke machine. A computer that also plays music and video's, with plenty of games and books too.



Yes! A dog, a small dog. A Yorkshire terrier. Sometimes he is attached to my chair for his brisk walk. Yes! I mean brisk walk. That is when he's not entangled in the middle of my wheels below.



I also see my community from a different perspective than most. Because of my uncontrollable body, my head develops a forward thrust. Then my sight reverts to the large pavement slabs. You've got it, litter-louts and dog excretion everywhere. Yes! Don't forget, my nose is the nearest to the ground. See ya soon.

Ball Talk.

My name is Ball. Yes! I hear you, a four-letter word. I have been used and abused in many ways I can assure you. I've been around for centuries now and yes things have changed considerably. The good thing, I travel far and wide and give enormous pleasure around the world.

I come in all colours, shapes and sizes even with signatures and more. I earn millions of pounds for others but for some more trouble than it's worth.

My pleasures in life are the small children and animals, OK! I get dropped and kicked around a lot, but who cares, not me. Their tiny angelic hands don't always catch me. Sometimes they kick sometimes miss. On occasions they even kiss and stroke me. The kittens also are gentle, they just like to roll me around and mouth a little. Dogs however, have gnashers like crocodile teeth.

Now for the biggie, the big kids that is. They kick with the force of thunder. They also enjoy me being confiscated or worse having me killed off altogether. I smash windows in houses, cars and shops even causing physical injury on my players and opponents.

This is the game of all games. The boys in coloured shirts with numbers on their backs. The dimensional football pitch. The fight for one's life.The injuries I cause through their stupidity. The whistle blow and red card shown. A penalty kick taken. A roar from the crowd the lions in the den, eating their prey. The dreaded studded football boots. A shattering effect.

Then their is the Holy Grail, the goal post. A goal I could score or land myself smack into the humming crowd. The chants and jeers from within the crowd. Their hands keep me from the pitch. Now, my career is at an end. A new ball appears and I'm out of the game.

Monologue 2.

Will I Or Will I Not.

I want to do it! Should I. I'm too frightened. Then again, If I don't, I'll never do it again.

Blimey, I wasn't this bad in my primary school days, years ago, I'm shaking like a leaf and my teeth won't stop chattering. I'll have one more try? At last! I've managed it. I'm standing in five feet of water in my local swimming baths.

It's thirty years since I last attempted it and here I am venturing towards learning to swim. I can't tell my children, I'm scared they'd laugh at me. I'm going to master it, if it's the last thing I ever do. I wish it had been a woman instructor though, this guy keeps holding me by my waist and I feel really uncomfortable about it. I'm sure I'm going to drown. Maybe this is a bad idea. My eyes feel sore, my bum feels numb, and I don't know my left leg from my arm?

Thank goodness this lesson is now over. I'm sweating now at the thought of another lesson next week. I can't stop shivering and it doesn't help with limited space in this cubicle. Now I've got my foot stuck in the turn-up of my trousers. Nothing is going right for me today. At last I'm dressed.

I've got my car keys and I'm starving hungry. That swimming lesson has really knocked the stuffing out of me. Now I'll have to tell the wife a few fibs of my whereabouts. She hasn't a clue that I can't swim? And me going to Barbados in six months.

Monologue Moment.

Here I am wandering where to begin and what I'm about to write. I've followed the signs and signed on the dotted line and now it just requires a post from me. I feel a little stupid talking out aloud to myself, but hey it works I am at least writing words in my new Blog.

I have only just arrived back from the garden nursery to pick out some wonderful prickly cactus that my husband is interested in. They come in all sizes and shapes and have needles that will pierce the toughest of skins. They have names that I will never pronounce, but pronouns in my writing I have no problem there. Nouns and concrete those too I enjoy, but not contemplating joining my hubbies hobby.

I just love writing words and mainly short stories and even some poems. My goodness how time flies. I will break here as I am gagging for a drink, my mouth has dried up on me but not my thoughts on writing this monologue. That's better now I can focus, but would you believe some of my family members have arrived to what they think is a coffee shop. There talk of canaries and cactus and even babies come into their conversations. I'll never concentrate now so will end here and begin a new post soon.