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 bitterly. Many times she sits and thinks too hard and her mind wonders and she well 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 just barely sit in front of her laptop computer, where she enjoys her writing and solitude.

Photo’s adorn the walls of her beautiful chestnut horse and in each photo she is at its side, and her beautiful 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 she feels so safe in.

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

A Summer’s Day

The hot rays of the sun, beat down upon my face.

An occasional breeze wafts softly over

Cooling, soothing, warming, at a leisurely pace.

The newly cut-grass smells fresh and sweet.

The gentle breeze sways back and forth whilst

birds are singing, squawking, screaming.

High, high far into the blue, blue sky swooping.

The nearby airport echo’s the sounds

of plane engines departing, to destinations abound.

This serene state, abruptly comes to an end.

A big black cat, leaps onto my lap from the ground.

Its long wirey whiskers tickle as my fingers bend.

His purring hollowing heartbeat a sedation.

Somehow this sensation was pure elation.

Puppy Talk.


Sometimes I too feel like I am wading through heavy water. This photo gives me a great lift and can well imagine myself running and splashing and playing with this beautiful young puppy dog.
They say that many stories are created from any picture or icon so I thought here I will experiment with that theme. Pictures can tell many tales, by the colours, the moods and the locations.

A beautiful day enticed me to go walking with my pet puppy. The heat was beating down upon my head and my clothes were stuck to me. Suddenly I realised that we were nearing the beach.
A shop close by displayed swim wear in the window, I quickly tucked my puppy under my arm and entered the shop. The lady behind the counter instructed me that dogs were not allowed inside the shop. I said that I could not leave it outside. The dog began licking her pale face and she agreed to serve me.
I went into the changing room after I paid for my goods,whilst she dribbled over my puppy, when I returned I thanked her for her kindness.
It only took five minutes to reach the beach. I stripped off immediately and stood in the bright green swimming costume I had just bought. It had been years since I had even put my feet onto sand never mind swim after all that time ago.
Puppy loved every minute of our splashing and paddling in the water but whilst swimming I think he thought I'd turned into a fish. He kept grabbing my arm and teething on me whilst rapidly shaking his head. You can see by the picture that he is a proper water babe. Who said that the dog is a man's best friend, It should be said, also a woman's best friend.

Silver Metal Machine.

The silver metal machine
captured my hearts desire.
Babies in their stages four in all
soft blue eyes complexions cream and pink.
Young vibrant teans no green with envy
loving portraying who they really are.
Happy now and families of their own
colourful memories throughout their generations.
My silver metal machine
captured my dream of dreams
my children all of five
theirs sixteen and all complete.

The Retrieved Mobile Phone.

The frustration was setting in now as he had looked everywhere for his mobile phone. He had always laid it on the occasional table, that sat in the corner of his kitchen but now it was no where to be seen. He searched high and low in every nook and cranny, and knew now that someone must have taken it.
He cast his mind back to when he last made a call and remembered that he had to meet a friend that day. There were three young boys sat on his doorstep with his son and he remembered telling him not to go into the house until he came back. The house he was visiting was only a short distance away from his home so he was only gone for about thirty minutes.
That evening he questioned his son about his missing mobile phone but he swore that the day his dad saw them sitting outside that nobody went into the house not even him. He believed his son as he was a good boy and he had no reason to mistrust him.
A week later His mother called and said that she had been calling his number every day since his phone went missing and still it was saying that it was in voice mail. She was a very persistent person and was so angry that someone could have taken her son's phone. Whilst they were drinking a coffee she said that she would try the number for one last time but he said that she was wasting her time. She slowly dialled the number and to her great surprise a man answered the phone.
Her son grabbed it out of her hand and he shouted that the man was using a stolen phone. After a short conversation the man explained that he bought the phone in good faith from a young man in his thirties and he paid him twenty pounds for it. He also said that he could have it back at the same price that he paid and gave him his address; he also added that if he came imediately He would meet him in the local pub in High Street. He agreed and passed the phone to his mum.
He pulled up in his car and parked outside the door to the pub, the Black Horse. He entered and asked the barman if he knew a man called Drew and he pointed him out. He walked toward him and sat at his table and the man took the small black mobile from his inside pocket and passed it over. He exchanged it with a twenty pound note and slipped it into his own pocket, relieved.
The man told him the name of who sold him the phone but he didn't recognise hearing it before. He left the pub and drove home and so glad that he had it safely back. It had only been two month ago that he had paid one hundred and ten pounds for his phone because it had the facillity to send and receive his e-mails via the phone.
Back home his mother was delighted that she had repeatedly rang his number in the hope of someone answering. It paid off and he was more than grateful to her. He didn't even know that his mother had been that concerned about it being missing in the first place.
That evening they both questioned the young son and asked if he or his son's friends knew a Simon Kellson, but he had never heard of him. At least the phone was found and he certainly was not going to begin a new scenario of finding out who or how or when that person stole the phone.

Some weeks had passed after the event of the stolen mobile phone. He had been busy cooking his dinner when his door bell blasted out its song. Two police officers had stood on his step and asked him politely, for an invite into his home for a chat. He'd closed the door behind them and offered them a seat but they declined and said that it would'nt take them long to have a chat.
They said they had called about his mobile phone that was stolen from his home. He was shocked as he wasn't even aware that the police had been informed. They explained that his mother rang them at the local station and whilst in the middle of her explanation of the phone, retracted from giving more details and said that she would sort it out for herself, and ended the conversation.
One officer began by saying that they had a young man in Custody and had been there all night after being interviewed about a break-in at a local school, and computer equipment and a couple of mobile phones had gone missing too.
The office then said, "have you heard of anyone called Simon Kellson". He stood up suddenly off his seat and replied, "that's the name of the guy who sold my mobile to the bloke in the pub". The two officers had looked pleased that he remembered the name and said that Simon was now on a charge for burglary and theft and because he had previous convictions would surely be served a prison sentence.
The main reason we are here is that your neighbour gave his description to us as at the time your mobile went missing Simon had climbed over your back gate and grabbed your phone. We know this because one of the phones that we found from the burglary at the school, had your sim card in it. Simon has come clean and the rest is History.
He then said to the officer that his neighbour had gone on holiday and he was wondering why he never divulged anything to him. The officer said there was a reason for that as he felt so guilty that he could not do anything about it as he was petrified. He was all packed to go on holiday and I suppose that he just wanted to forget it.
He then stated that he was right, as he was a very quiet private person and did'nt converse too much in the short time that he had lived next door.
The officer said that the twenty pounds was something that he could not get back, but at least he knew that the thief who broke into his home would be away for quite sometime in prison. At least there would be no other person's home broken into by him for quite sometime; if he still dared to at the end of his sentence.
Three weeks later whilst reading his evening paper his eyes flitted to the name of Simon Kellson. He had received a one year prison sentence for the burglary at the school and a six month concurrent sentence for the theft of the mobile phone that was stolen from his home. He placed the paper onto the table and he smiled a smile of all smiles.

Internet Provider.

When Jean arose from her deep sleep, she thought it had all been a dream. As she glanced at the single bed adjacent to her, she realised that she really had at last found her dear sister. Now the years of searching were now finally over.

Jean and Sheila were separated at the age of six years old. Their mother had passed away after a long battle to fight cancer. She had brought both girls up single handed after she had divorced their father. He had re-married and refused to take any responsibilities of his daughter's future. They were both given up for seperate adoptions.

At the age of twenty years, Jean knew she had to find her sister. Her childhood memories were excellent. The vivid recollections of her sister in those early years were still with her. They had been so close then.

The numerous agencies that Jean had contacted did not lead her to any vital clues of Sheila's whereabouts. Unknown to both sister's they were already computer literate and both had their own access to the internet.

One evening Jean decided to include all the information on her web page. Knowing full well that the information would spread worldwide.

Months later whilst Jean was sat at her computer, she received an e-mail. It stated that the caller had some important news relating to her adopted sister and that she was living in Paris, France. Sheila was so excited that her nimble finger's on her keyboard kept throwing up the wrong letters whilst writing back to the person with the news.

An hour later Jean was chatting on the phone line to her beloved sister. Sheila with tears streaming down her face wiped them away with the back of her hand in order to keep the conversation going. After what seemed an age of getting to know one another again Sheila invited Jean to fly out to Paris for a grand re-union.

As Jean stepped onto the tarmac at Charles De-Gaul Airport, she recognised Sheila from the internet photo that she had posted. Sheila's children and husband were there too. Jean flung her arms around her sister and they both sobbed uncontrollable. The smallest of the two girls pulled her mummies arm and said that she had not to cry because now her long lost sister was here. Jean laughed and looked at her neice and remembered that she was so like how she had remembered her sister all those years ago.

The Internet Provider, certainly provided the sister's with a future together again after finding each other on the World Wide Web.

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I intend to write many short stories in my Blog and even some poems too. I would appreciate even some critique as well as feedback of whether my work is enjoyed or not. I have been writing for many years and I feel I have written some good ideas and kept the reader happy also. I will leave you all to be the judge of that though. If you too enjoy writing please let me know and I am sure that it will aid us all as writers.xxx