The Dripping Tap

 by Danielle Linsey

a glass of tap water

I’m awake. Or at least I think I am.

I can hear the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom tap. A slow gentle beat, that should send me to sleep. It doesn’t.

I fling my legs over the side of the bed, the cold bare floor sending shivers through me.

‘Where are you going?’ Jake asks, his eyes still closed.

‘To stop that dripping tap.’

‘What dripping...’

He trails off mid-sentence. The man can sleep through anything.

I creep past the baby’s room, praying I don’t wake her. The girl has supersonic hearing, except it would seem, when it comes to that blasted tap.

With a simple squeeze and a slight tug, the tap is once more silent; bliss returns to my small home.

And then... the banshee wails of my daughter begin, loud enough to wake the whole house, except for her father.

I peep around the bathroom door, into the hallway, just in case. No, no movement.

I plod along to Cassidy’s room, smiling as she lifts her chubby hands up to me, desperate to be lifted.

Instead, I lay her back on the cot mattress, running my hand over her stomach, as I use the other one to turn on her hanging mobile.

Three hours later and she is finally asleep, albeit in my arms, having given up on the idea of not picking her up. I know it was inevitable, but a mother can try.

Jake finally wanders in, looking nice and rested, his shirt undone and his feet bare.

‘Have you seen my socks?’

‘On the clothes horse,’ I whisper back, stifling a yawn.

‘Have you been in here most of the morning?’

I nod, my eyes heavy.

‘You should have let the tap drip,’ he declares, turning towards the stairs.

‘What?’ I question, standing and following him, the sudden jolt waking the sleeping child in my arms.

‘She seems to like the dripping of the tap, it helps her fall asleep.’

‘And when were you going to tell me that?’

‘I thought I had.’

I pass him a now screaming Cassidy, bewildered by the lack of care in his slip of memory, and walk away.

‘Where are you going?’ He calls after me, holding our daughter out towards me.

‘To sleep.’

‘But, I have a 9am meeting?’

‘Then rearrange it, baby whisperer,’ I tell him, closing the bedroom door behind me.

 

Peace, Forgiveness and Faith

 

by Amanda Jones

with warm milk and honey

 

Grief brought wails of emotion and tears, so many tears. Yet being there, watching Mum die also brought an honourable witnessing. It grasped my very being, wrapping my stomach in knots and claiming my appetite.

Throughout my twenty-six years with Mum I grappled with her almost genius quality. So strong was her faith and belief in forgiveness. Never, did I think I would finally understand.

What happens when you do?

Life becomes easier and expectation gives way to acceptance. Every day becomes a bonus and one of unknown opportunity. For many years I meditated, grew my soul, drenched my childhood depression and anxiety with positivity. It worked.

But, it also created a mask of smiles to confront the world. I learned that my peers, colleagues, friends, family were not interested in truth and honesty. They wanted a cover to be drawn over everything with a pretence of happiness. You cannot reach genuine love and joy like this.

Only by facing issues and accepting wrongs can you move on.

The boxes in my head can open as I please and be slammed shut. They should not be filed away to be forgotten and shelved. They lurk in the background, nibbling at you, pulling you further into darkness. I had to find the strength to open them all, in order to close them at will.

So, what about faith?

Is it God?

People are convinced that God would not make us suffer. But, it is our choices, our experience and how we choose to love which brings peace. God is the light within each one of us and to sit still, bathing in this divinity truly gives and enables us to return the gift. I truly believe that a liberating God allows us freedom and our own choices with this bring our experience.

What happens when you do find peace?

You are there for others and no longer afraid. Kindness and love prevail.

About the author 

 Amanda has been writing since childhood and along with short stories she writes her Missy Dog charity series, poetry, non-fiction and horror. You can find her here:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/amandababerauthor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/amanda_jones_aka_baber_author

Website: http://amandababerauthor.wordpress.com/

 

 

Jean Cast as Grace

 

by Janet Howson

champagne

Jean had turned up early for Colin’s CBT group. Ever since the disastrous evening accompanying her boss to a company banquet in London, she hadn’t slept. She added up the embarrassing points of the whole ghastly experience in her head.

1.       Her dress looked like a charity shop purchase against the stylish, expensive outfits worn by

the other guests.

2.       She was ignored by everyone else on the table.

3.       Dan, her boss, whom she adored and was so pleased had invited her to attend, had spent the whole evening chatting up a beautiful, young employee who apparently worked on another floor of the accountancy firm.

4.       She had drunk too much champagne and wine and ended up having to dash to the toilets.

She knew alcohol didn’t agree with her but she was so self-conscious and nervous that she had just kept on drinking, regardless.

5.       Dan had ordered a taxi for her, very early, and bundled her in to it, obviously annoyed with  her behaviour.

       So all this was going round and round in Jean’s brain as she waited for the rest of the CBT group to arrive.

      She didn’t have to wait long. Colin, the group therapist arrived first. He was wearing his signature outfit of well- worn jeans, a sweatshirt with a logo that meant nothing to Jean and his scruffy trainers.

     “Hi, Jean. You’re nice and early. Sorry I couldn’t get to Midsummer Night’s Dream I had to take the dog to the vet and by the time I got home it wasn’t worth going. How did it go?”

      “Oh, fine. Mine was only a small part but I didn’t flunk my lines. The audience seemed to appreciate our efforts.”

      “I will get to the next one I promise, what is your next production?”

      “You’re excused my next performance. We are doing a Murder Mystery for our director’s golf club that involves a dinner and a prize for the winning table. Golf club members only though. We do one every year.”

       At that moment a few more of the group arrived. Jean’s heart sank as she spotted Deidre, chatting away to a girl she always came with, who was uttering the odd ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ every now and then. Jean hoped Deidre would let some of the other group talk, rather than repeat her tales of woe. Soon the chairs were all filled and Colin opened up the meeting.

      “Hi everyone,” there were several mumbles of ‘Hello’ ‘Okay’ ‘Hi Colin’ and several of the group peeled off their coats and jackets hanging them on the back of their chair. Colin waited until everyone had settled down.

      “At the last meeting, Jean talked about her love of her drama group and how she escaped from her troubles by taking on another persona. I for one was very disappointed that I couldn’t get to see Jean as Hippolita, in Midsummer Night’s Dream. Did anyone manage to get there at such short notice?”

      One hand went up, to Jean’s surprise as she hadn’t expected anyone to turn up. It was the middle aged man in the grey suit who said he belonged to a Gospel Choir at the last meeting. When she was on stage she never looked at the audience but delivered her lines above their heads. It was a trick she had learnt when she first started to perform, it helped concentration and stage fright. So she had no idea who turned up and who didn’t.

         “Oh, good for you, Samuel,” Colin enthused, “I’m glad someone represented the group.”

          “I really enjoyed it. Jean was excellent. I will certainly try and get to the group’s next production.”

        “Samuel, would you like to kick the meeting off by telling us all about your Gospel Choir? You mentioned it helped you with your issues, last week?”

        Samuel, coughed, he obviously found airing his problems and private life in public difficult but took a few deep breaths and began. “I joined the group about six months ago. I didn’t have to audition, which I was relieved about. My neighbour told me about it, she said it was a lot of fun and they wanted new members. I thought I’d give it a go and if I didn’t like it I’d give my excuses and not return. I just kept in the background to start with but after a while I relaxed and sang with more confidence and I was even asked to do a solo. Men are in shorter supply than women so we do get to be chosen more often.” Several of the men in the group responded to this with ‘I must join’ ‘Sounds like my type of group’ and there was general laughter all round.

      Samuel was gaining confidence now, even enjoying it. “I think what the group does for me is get me out of the house and amongst enthusiastic people who love to sing. When I am concentrating on the words of the song I forget about my issues. I just want to belong and be a part of the group as another singer, not someone with problems.”

      Jean could empathise with this. It was exactly the same with the drama group. She would be thinking of her words when rehearsing or in a play, pushing all her depressive thoughts away. She listened to Samuel as he related the songs he had learnt and the concerts they had put on. Jean liked his easy manner. She wanted to know more about him.  She didn’t need to wait much longer as Colin responded to Samuel’s talk.

      “Thank you so much for sharing that with us, Samuel. I am now going to ask you all to do an exercise. Not an aerobic one, in case you were getting worried. I want you to get into pairs and discuss the week you have just had. I want you to talk about what if anything has helped or triggered your problems. We will swap partners after five minutes. Off you go.”

      Jean wasn’t at all confident in doing this exercise. She then remembered how she was able to act on a stage. If she could do that then this should be easy. She chose to tell of her terrible experience at the dinner with Dan. As she was telling the story she could feel the heat rising from her neck to her face, the beads of perspiration on her brow. Somehow though, she knew it was doing her good, being able to share such experiences with a group of people who understood, who too had had embarrassing moments. She listened to tales of relapses, secret drinking and the guilt of lying to loved ones and their thoughts of suicide supressed but lingering in the background. Their self-hatred and low self-esteem, all of which she had experiences herself.

      When it came to her turn to be Samuel’s partner she felt quite weary, worn out by the emotions the discussions had raised in her. They smiled at each other. Jean was surprised how comfortable she felt in his company. She thought he must be in his forties or even early fifties, certainly older than her. She had always been old for her years. Her mother used to say ‘You were born with an old head on your shoulders, Jean.’ She hadn’t really understood what she meant, but as time went on she realised she had somehow skipped her teenage years, never being involved in all the trimmings of adolescence, the parties, the clubs, the music, the fashion. She was seen as a bit old fashioned, a bit quirky. She would have liked to have been like the others but somehow it never happened.

      “Well I’ve been boring everyone with my disastrous dinner party with my boss and I am not sure I can go through it again,” Jean began. “I would prefer to talk about our Drama Group. It is very friendly and welcoming and always on the lookout for new members. I was wondering, with your love of singing and performing whether you would…” she trailed off, feeling she had gone too far, the familiar spread of heat making her blush.

     Samuel interrupted her, “I was going to suggest a very similar thing but with you joining our Choir. We too are always encouraging new recruits. You would love it, as long as you had time with all your drama rehearsals.” He too looked uncomfortable, staring into Jean’s eyes as if trying to find an answer to his question. “I hadn’t thought about it the other way round with me joining your drama group. I have always loved the backstage jobs. I was on light and sound at university, when they put on productions. I never considered auditioning for a part.”

      “The same with me and singing. My mother always said I would sing away to myself when I was in my pram. In was too self-conscious at school to try for the choir and over the years the only singing I do is in the shower.”

     Samuel laughed, “Along with ninety per cent of the population.” He paused and lent closer to Jean. “Here’s the deal. I join your drama group if you join my choir. We will then be seeing each other at least three times a week, if we count these sessions.”

        Jean’s blushing had stopped and she felt completely relaxed and confident in Samuel’s presence. Had she at last met someone who liked her enough to want her in his life? She felt like a teenager in love, excited and with butterflies in her stomach. She knew what her answer would be.

    “That sounds like a great deal to me, Samuel, once we have completed the Murder Mystery Evening with me playing Grace, the next play will be on the way. So you can start coming down and I will be honoured to audition for the choir.”

     “Time up everyone. Can we gather back in a circle to discuss how we felt sharing with other members of the group and what you gained, if anything from them,” Colin announced.

        Through the scraping of chairs and people already exchanging comments, unable to wait for the official time, Jean felt Samuel reach out and squeeze her hand. There was no doubt in her mind what she had gained from the discussions, none at all.

About the author

Janet Howson  was born in Rochdale but moved to the South of England when she was seventeen. She loved writing and reading from an early age and wrote poetry and plays. Shejoined an amateur Drama group when she was eighteen and her love of the theatre began. She trained to be a teacher and her two subjects were English and Drama. She then went on to teach for thirty five years in Comprehensive schools in Redbridge, Havering and Essex. During this time she wrote and directed plays for the pupils and continued to be involved in Amateur Drama both as a performer and a director. Now she is retired, Janet has joined two writing groups and with the help and advice she has received here,  started to write short stories and has had stories published in anthologies and  her first novel, Charitable Thoughts can be found on Amazon Books. She intends to continue writing both novels and stories, adapting some of them into theatre scripts and radio plays.  

Published work:                                 

The Best of CafeLit 8 an anthology published by Chapletown Books 2019

Stories included: Marking Time & Induction Day.

Nativity an anthology published by Bridge House 2019

Story included: Solution.

Charitable Thoughts a novella published by Austin Macauley

Can be found on Amazon Books

It happened in Essex: tall tales from the Basildon Writers’ Group

Can be found on Amazon books

The Secret Garden

 by Andy Houston

single malt 

Sunlight reflects on the surface of the loch in the distance as I walk through the dark trees of the forest. Sticks snap under my heavy boots and I breathe in the scent of decomposing leaves and pine needles. When I arrive at the water's edge, I stop. A range of purple trees are visible on the far side. Beautiful.

 

  I whistle, and listen for a response. A few seconds later a creature darts through the trees behind me.

 

  ‘Billie!’

 

  My dog, a cross between a Hungarian Vizsla and a Collie, leaps into the air next to me, then races back into the woods over some bushes.

 

  I walk on along the path circumnavigating the loch. There’s no wind this morning and it’s not as cold as it has been in recent days.

 

  I pass the fallen elm. Its long trunk and branches protrude into the water, reflecting on the still surface in perfect symmetry. I step around a mire and head towards the woodland further on. Billie runs ahead.

 

  A tree with the shape of an eye patterned in the bark, looks down at me as I step onto the bank at the edge of the forest and head into the trees. I like to get off the main path. There’s less marsh ground and the chances of running into anyone is unlikely.

 

  Here, thousands of fallen leaves have turned the ground into a soft carpet of orange. Through some thorn bushes I find myself in an open area where tree trunks stretch upwards like columns of a cathedral. A little further on and I’m at the secret garden. Dozens of sticks form a fence around the base of a tree and within them is a collection of stones painted in bright colours. One has the image of smiling lips. Another a heart. One says: ‘RIP’.  In the middle is a brown pebble, the size of a hand, with neat, white painted writing: ‘The Secret Garden.’

 

  The first time I came across it was the day of my interview at St. Matthews Church. It lifted my spirits when I saw it. One stone in particular.  ‘Shine,’painted in yellow next to an image of the sun. It encouraged me to do just that. The vicars job was offered to me later that day. I’ve been living here three months now and I always start the day walking around the loch. It clears my head, and wears Billie out.

 

  The day after my interview, I took the stone and placed it on another part of my route by the side of the path. I wanted to pass the message on, and for the person who painted it to know it had been seen.

 

  Another time I saw a stone with the words:  ‘Be Kind’. Further along my route I came to a marshland and dragged a fallen branch over to make a bridge. I wanted to add to the positive spirit of this rare place that hardly anyone else knew about.

 

  I found more. As I made my way through a particularly unapproachable part of the woods, many fallen trees lined the ground and had to be climbed over. The bushes were closer together and more difficult to pass. I saw something red and white beyond, resting on the branch of a tree further in but couldn’t work out what it was at first. It looked like it might be a cap or a piece of clothing. I climbed closer and saw an envelope.

 

  The damp paper was delicate in my hands. I opened it and read:  ‘This special garden is here for all to embrace. Just be careful who you tell about this secret place.’

 

  The words reminded me of Lulu. A girl I shared an intense relationship with at university. She wrote poetry all the time. Some of it like this. Enigmatic, with an ability to touch you. My gut stirred. It couldn't be her surely. She left to live in Ireland. I placed the letter back in the envelope.

 

  ‘Billie! Come on!’

 

  I didn’t see anything new there for a week or so until one morning I discovered a glove on the ground under a shrub. It was an adult’s glove. Pink. I picked it up and placed it on a branch in the centre of the open area.

 

  The next day it was replaced by a note saying: Thank you.’

 

  I haven't seen any sign of life in the secret garden for weeks and wonder if the person has stopped coming.

 

  I wonder if there’s anything today?

 

  A stone on the ground with a painted red arrow points up the hill. I press on up the steep bank where the trees are closer together. I push my way through a holly bush, protecting my skin by pushing my shoulder into the branches. There in front of me are more stones. They line both sides of the trees with candles painted on them. And at the end is another envelope sitting on the bough of an oak tree. I open it and read the words:

 

‘I don’t know who you are, but I wish you well. You’re  clearly a kind person and it’s good to know there are kind people out there. I am moving from the area tomorrow, but before I go, I want you to know that I appreciated your kindness. I pray that you will find happiness wherever you end up.

 

L.

 

X.’

About the author 

Andy Houstoun has had a number of short stories published in a range of magazines and is the author of Short Stories of Love & Entanglement. 

 

 

 

 

A Way of Being

 

 

by John Young

 

cava

 

Pat, retired, owner for several months of a quiet village cottage and still adjusting to life after her husband’s long illness and death, takes her usual seat on a rock in front of a twelve feet high monolith which the locals refer to as the ‘Guardian Stone’ or simply ‘The Guardian’. None of her neighbours are clear as to why it bears that name though it is vaguely suggested that its position on a hill overlooking the village invites comparison to a vigilant sentry. 

 

To satisfy the curiosity of villagers she has explained her frequent visits to the stone with various references to her health. ‘Climbing up the hill is good exercise; it strengthens my legs.’ Or: ‘It’s good for my lungs.’ Or: ‘I’m trying to make up for years of inactivity.’  Sometimes she would, in a distant and very brief way, hint at a desire to put behind her the turbulence of previous years. ‘My husband had a difficult time before he died.’ Or: ‘It’s such a peaceful contrast to the commotion of town life and hectic years in a busy office.’ 

 

Most of her neighbours, warming to her obvious love of her cottage now embraced by its daffodil carpeted garden, and to her cheerful but unobtrusive involvement in various village activities, quickly accepted these explanations at face value and avoided any attempt to gain a deeper understanding of her attraction to the stone.

 

Her frequent walks to the monolith did however attract passing interest from an elderly somewhat eccentric neighbour called Paul, regarded by local farmers as a very reliable water dowser. ‘Earth energy lines and underground streams intersect thereabouts,’ he said, glancing in the direction of the monolith. Then he paused for a moment looking at her with a curious eye. ‘Sensitive folk can pick up things in spots like that’. 

 

Not wishing to be drawn into discussion about what she may or may not be experiencing she merely nodded and replied in a casual manner. ‘I love the tranquillity of the place.’ 

 

The real reasons for her frequent trips to the Guardian she does not for an instant feel the need to disclose, that she purchased the cottage because of a chance visit to the spot; that the ‘presence’ - the heavy but peaceful stillness - which she enjoys around the monolith, reminds her of fleeting episodes of happy tranquillity during the stress-filled months of her husband’s painful decline. At the time, these moments racked her conscience, but not to the point of entirely extinguishing the conviction that ‘something’ was experienced - a form of awareness - which should have a valuable and permanent place in her life.   

 

‘Presence!’ She feels uncomfortable using this word. Too spooky by half! she thinks. Considering herself to be a very practical down-to-earth person she studiously avoids mystical speculations or dwelling on her neighbour’s theories about ley lines. She contents herself with the judgement that many places - churches, buildings even towns - have what she refers to as a ‘feel’, some pleasant some less so. ‘Presence?' Just a more intense, more focussed version of an everyday experience, she thinks. Anything else? Just a distraction!  

 

‘A feeling?’ A lens? A prompt? Or maybe a teaching aid helping me to get a gentle grip on this experience. The spot around the stone is her classroom. Or is it my nursery, my playroom, my inside-my-head workshop? 

 

Today, as usual she takes a seat on a convenient rock in front of the monolith. Allowing her gaze to flit across its surface she searches for the means to articulate, or, as she wants to describe it ‘to fit’ the special experience that she wants to recall and recapture. 

 

‘Nothing coming, ‘she mutters after several minutes. She tries to control her frustration. Suddenly she feels bored. Not in the right frame of mind! Not at all! She wants to be active. Things to do in the garden, she thinks and readies herself for the walk back down to the village. 

 

Then a thought, seemingly haphazard, drifts into her consciousness and she glances again at the monolith.  Wonder what the view looks like from the top of the Guardian? A further thought quickens then congeals, carrying with it an ill-defined sense of certainty. Above!  For some reason, the small word seems to be important. 

 

‘Seeing things from above!’ she whispers. Her perception of her surroundings suddenly shifts - her experience of the world is reorganised. For a vivid instant, no more than that, the separation of her inner self and the world is replaced by an exhilarating sense of immersion in a broad sea of consciousness, in which she is only a part. But then as she attempts to grasp the shifting kaleidoscope of vibrant experiences the normal pattern of her reality abruptly reasserts itself. 

 

Normal? What’s that? she thinks.  Me! Looking at the world out there. Just like looking through a window. Me ... trapped in my head. 

 

She breathes deeply, attempting to calm herself. ‘Seeing things from above,’ she repeats. ‘From above! Not striving, participating. No inside, not outside!  No self! Just being aware. Only that.’ Once again, her perception of the world seems to tilt and then, as before, in an instant, her ‘normal self’ reasserts itself. 

 

As she heads down the hill towards the village, she is grasped by the conviction that she can ‘be’ in the world, can see the world, can experience and encounter life, in two distinct ways. ‘It’s basically a gestalt thing,’ she murmurs, chuckling at the simplicity of the discovery.  ‘Now you see two faces in profile. Now you see a vase. Now I am the usual me; now I am part of ...’ Words are not necessary, she decides. Her new experience is special - very special, very precious - but at the same time is not special at all: just an alternative, everyday way of being in the world.