Crushed Hope

I was sitting in traffic...my mind had emptied and these words fell into my mind:

crushed hope

desiccated blooms
cellophane wrapped
unyielding stems held erect
lashed to rusty railings
bleached blond petals and leaves
ravaged by keen sea breezes
a tissue thin everlasting memorial

Malware: Analogy explaining M.E. (Myalgic encephalomyelitis)

Over the years, more people than I care to count have asked me to explain how my M.E. (Myalgic encephalomyelitis) affects me, what’s it like, what is it, this illness that has a poor press and bad reputation.

The thing is, they all expect me to have an easily relatable answer, when the medical community can’t even agree on it.

So here’s my analogy:

M.E. is like the next generation malware. It sneaks into your operating system through weaknesses in your firewall you don’t even know you have and it infects your hard drive.

Your firewall launches your anti spyware, your malware detectors, your anti-virus, tasks clogging up the RAM until the whole thing grinds to a halt and stops working like it should.

You run diagnostics, but this malware is sneaky, and you can’t remove what you can’t find.

So, you take your computer to be repaired, but this IT person says they can’t find anything wrong with your computer, tells you to run a scan and it’ll work again.

It doesn’t.

You go back to the repair shop, but this time the technician says the system is fine, you’re just not looking after your programs properly.

Eventually, you go to a different repair man, because whether or not it’s a user error and there’s nothing really wrong, you still can’t get your computer to function like everyone else’s computer.

This new technician might take a look at the computer and refer you to a specialist, because they think that there might be something wrong after all.

And when you get to this specialist, who might agree that yes, there is something wrong with your computer, and that no, you weren’t imagining it and no, it isn’t your fault.

But the specialist tells you, they don’t know how to fix it.



Written by CM @ChucktheGremlyn

Published here with her permission

What does 'writing' allow you to do?

Writing allows me: to explore ideas mine & other peoples

Writing allows me: to explore my emotions

Writing allows me: to explore my reactions

Writing allows me: to revisit old loves

Writing allows me: to reclaim my past life

Writing allows me: to invent impossible new & yet plausible situations

Writing allows me: to study relationships & record events

Writing allows me: to do things on paper that I wouldn’t do in real life

Writing allows me: to be someone I am not

Writing allows me: to do something I wouldn’t easily do as me

Writing allows me: to take a different perspective

Writing allows me: to be honest

Writing allows me: to be less than truthful

Writing allows me: to be down right deceitful

Writing allows me: to escape

Writing allows me: to let my imagination run wild

Writing allows me: to share my ideas

Writing allows me: to express my thoughts

Writing allows me: to rewrite my past

Writing allows me: to reframe a bad situation

Writing allows me: to take a leap of faith

So

What does writing allow you to do?

Driving home yesterday along A280, Long Furlong Road, a red kite swooped in low across the path of my car, came to a halt, looped around and hoovered over head, eyeing its prey. Truly a heart stopping moment and looked just like this photo (borrowed)

Lucky Strike - Writing exercise

Writing exercise: pick up an everyday object & develop an idea for a short story in 500 words or less. I chose a scarf.

Lucky Strike

All her favourite colours; harsh dark hues, muddy greens and murky grey-blues, with a hint of yellow woven through the weft threads of a lightweight fabric. Neatly rolled to prevent any creases, stored in the middle drawer at the back of the hat stand in the vestibule. A feint hint of jasmine lingered, her much-loved perfume but too sweet for my sensitive nostrils.

I scrunched the fabric tight into a small ball as I tried to make it crumple. As the fabric unwound itself, the colours sprang back flat. I was disappointed, and as unsettled as she was the last time we had met.

She hadn’t expected my visit, ‘you’re an unwelcome presence.’

I hadn’t known how to reply, yet I patted her hand, attempting to mollify her mood and sat down beside her bed. I smiled but didn’t say anything.

Out of nowhere her instructions came thick and fast. ‘I want you to disinter him.’

I blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘You know… dig him up.’

I pushed my back deeper into the unattractive vinyl armchair, breathed out slow as I folded my hands in my lap. A few age spots visible, I stroked my taut skin over the back of my hand. I looked at her closely, and made positive eye contact, I was unprepared. ‘I’m not sure that’s legal.’

Her spider like fingers batted away my reservations, ‘Oh I’m not bothered with legalities. I want you to gather our combined ashes and throw them into the sea, off Brighton Pier.’

‘Why Brighton Pier?’

‘It’s where we had our honeymoon. Two days and one glorious night, that was all the time he was allowed to take off from National service to marry. He hated National Service. We didn’t have a choice either, the last Saturday in December. No big bash. No money back then. We were hungry but we were happy. It was so cold. Inside the hotel it wasn't much warmer. We almost froze.’

I hadn’t known they were married. I thought John was her partner. She was candid. Lucid. Her blunt matter of fact manner left me perplexed. Her request was unequivocal. I was about to explain my reasoning, ‘I’m not sure that’s quite the right thing to do...’

‘Poppycock girl, you haven’t an ounce of romance in your soul.’

Her request marred my day, as unwanted as a thin grey scum clouding the surface of the washing up bowl filled with unwashed dirty dishes.

Strange isn’t it how the death of a loved one, a favourite aunt, is a problem rather than a solution?

Alongside the scarf I had found a packet of ‘Lucky Strike’ cigarettes. I didn’t know my aunt smoked and neither did her husband John, as far as I knew so why had she placed the packet with this scarf? Who did the cigarette packet belong too? There was one cigarette left and tucked inside a piece of card, in a stylized script a feint grey pencilled note. Unsigned. Forever Yours x.

Shoebox Letters

Exercise: Look outside your window, what do you see? In 100 words or less invent a life story.


This is what I came up with... "Shoebox Letters"


Spirited sisters, Lizzie and Mabel lived long lives at either ends of the globe. Buried in their ninetieth year, now lying side by side they’ll talk to each other for an eternity.

Mabel sheared sheep. Lillian baked bread. Both bore six sons, tall strapping lads who went to war. None came home.

Exchanging long-handwritten letters, comforting expressions in place of hugs and kisses, that breathed life and light into their never-ending devotion.

These treasured possessions. Tokens of love tied with purple ribbon. Badges of honour stored forever in shoeboxs under each metal bed frame, to be found by another.

September Reboot

As kids go back to school and college students move on up to university I’ve decided to declare this month as the start of my new year and I shall attempt to reboot my writing.

No foolish promises.

Just a bucket load of optimism that I can do this… now.

So here goes.