Fury of the Wind

excerpt

As Will approached he saw that she stood at least an
inch taller than his five-foot-six frame. What he could see of her
blonde hair was short and curly. These facts he noted with little
interest. But when she turned her long-lashed blue eyes on him his
step faltered. He had the momentary impression he might drown
in their depth.
Reluctantly he turned away to accept two large suitcases from
the conductor. Placing them on his cart, Will prepared to retrace
his steps along the platform. The conductor hollered “Aboard” and
jumped back onto the coach. The train whistle shrilled, the wheels
turned and gathered speed, moving the coaches out of the station.
Will and the young woman stood alone on the platform.
She looked around, clearly bewildered, glancing first in the direction
of the station house then across the expanse of gravel and
blowing dust to the main street. She appeared to scrutinize each
building as her head turned slowly from left to right. Will could
only guess what she must think of the old store fronts, most of
which were in need of a coat of paint. When her eyes finally came
to rest on the town hall, the most impressive building on the street
with its long flight of stairs leading to the upper floor, she sighed
and looked back at the station.
Will relieved the woman of her hand luggage and set off with his
cart. “Where d’ya want these?” he called over his shoulder.
She hesitated, then hurried to catch up to him, her stylish high
heels clicking on the planks. With one hand she clutched her hat
which was threatening to become a victim of the hot wind.
“Well … I don’t know. You see, I’m to be met here so I’m sure my
… uh … friend will arrive at any minute.”
“Might as well wait in the station then. It’s more pleasant.”
Will pushed the waiting room door open but the air that met
them belied his words. Her nose wrinkled, presumably at the fusty
odour of the old station house. Will dumped the luggage on the
floor and banged the door shut as he went out. When he walked
into his office he saw, through the wicket, the woman sitting on a
wooden bench near the window.
For a considerable time she sat without moving. Perched on the
edge of her seat, her eyes constantly darted from the window to the
door. Not once did she glance in the direction of the wicket behind…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

The Qliphoth

excerpt

“Lucas, there’s no need for histrionics. You’ve got enough to do without
storming around on the blasted heath like an extra from King Lear . . .”
“I want the keys to the car.” He doesn’t want to know what he ought to be
doing, he just wants to do it.
“You’re crazy—you’re still on L-plates, you don’t expect me—”
“I don’t expect a bloody thing, Mother, I just want the map from the car,
that’s all, nothing else, you don’t have to bother about a damn thing, just the
keys to the map, nothing else. ”
She’s never seen him so wired up. Or so obsessive. For a second, as if under
remote control, from another distant decade, she’s about to open her bag and
surrender the keys to the VW. Then the truth dawns.
“You’re not going to Oakhill. To see him. No way.” She tries to block the
doorway, but he’s elbowing past, eyes glaring through her. Suddenly they’re
stumbling side by side down the overgrown path against the slanting rain, yelling
through gaps in the thunder.
“If you get your father all worked up in some ridiculous confrontation, after
all we’ve been through, I’ll never speak to you again . . . Anyway, you need an
appointment, they’ll never let you in without an appointment, without proper
consultation . . .”
Which triggers sirens in his head. Out it comes, in burning tongues: she’d
falsified whatever was left of Dad, she’d always have some pretext to stop him
visiting the Clinic by himself, she’s full of bullshit lies, typical teacher, he’s sick
of her homegrown demonology, he has to know. He’s hoarse, but she’s still
gripping his sleeve, she won’t let go, she’s trying to steady herself against the
gatepost.
“Please, Lucas, please, you don’t know, you’ve no idea . . .” But it’s too late
now, condition red, she recognises that tautness around the eyes, the hardening
of facial tone, he’s got that flash/flicker radiating from his eyes, you can’t
wash it out of the genes, even in heavy weather. He’s going to go.
Her arm is a limp prosthesis. He’s already walking down the wet gravel
road, hunched against the rain. He shouts something through the storm,
something like forget the bloody map, I’ll make up my own story, there’s no answer
to that and then he’s turning the corner by the old Priory, and he’s gone.
Back in the hallway she’s shivering, but her automatic crisis-management
mode has started operating. Phone Oakhill, ask for Doctor Jago—Sorry to trouble
you,Doctor, but I’m very concerned my son is on his way to the hospital demanding to
see Nicholas he seems very overwrought I don’t want him to cause trouble perhaps you
could—the sentences are forming neatly, as she dials—and re-dials . . .
The earpiece is dead. This damned telephone must have been struck by
lightning. All the lines must be down.Gulping back tears of frustration…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Wellspring of Love

excerpt

Ronald raised a threatening fist. “Get out.”
Tim turned his back on them and scrambled down the steps.
Rachael got to her feet and stood unsteadily, one hand clutching
her torn blouse, the other brushing the hay out of her hair.
Ronnie took a deep breath. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. You can’t blame Timmy, you know. He was only
playing.”
Ronnie looked away from her. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered. Taking
her arm he led her to the stairs. “You’d better go to the house and get
cleaned up. And you have to tell your mother what happened.”
She swung around to face him. “Oh no, I can’t, Ronnie. Please …
please don’t tell Mom and Dad. Timmy didn’t even realize what he
was doing. We used to wrestle all the time when we were kids.”
“They have to know, Rachael,” he said quietly. He bit his lip and
looked at the board floor. “Look, kid, I know how you feel about Tim.
He’s been like a brother to you for years. But you have to realize he’s not
a child anymore. He has a man’s body, and a … a man’s … ah … feelings …”
“He’s a child, Ronnie. You know his mind’s like a ten-year-olds. In
that way, he’s even younger than Bobby.”
Ronald searched for words to explain what he was trying so hard
to say. How could he make her understand? Having spent eight of
her sixteen years on the farm, she knew a little about life. And didn’t
she hang out at school, and every other chance she got, with their
precocious cousin, Lyssa?
“C’mon, let’s get out of here. I have to go back to work. And you go
to the house and talk to your mom.”
“I can’t talk to her. She and Dad and the kids have gone to town.”
Rachael scrambled down the steps and outside into the sunshine,
Ronald right behind her.
“That’s no excuse, kid; they won’t be gone all day.” He gave her a
gentle push in the direction of the house, then turned to walk back to
the field and the abandoned tractor.
As he stumbled over the furrows, his mind in turmoil,

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562917

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763327

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume I

Silver cloud next to the moon
The old seamen
who don’t have caiques anymore
who don’t have nets anymore
sit on the rock
and smoke their pipes
voyages shadowed and remorseful
But we don’t know anything
about ashes in the taste of a voyage
We know the voyage
and the blue green semicircle of the horizon
which is like the wild eyebrow
of a sea god

We jump on the boats
untie the lines
and sing to the sea
staring at the opened cloud
next to the spring moon
Which diamond city
sleeps behind the mountains?
Which lights shiver in the night
and call us?
There are some small white graves
of innocent seagulls
far away on desolate islands of the unknown
that they alone met
in the illumination of the ocean
We laid down there our first flowers
our first sob our first thought
We heard the song of the sea
and we can’t sleep anymore
Mother
don’t hold my hand

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763076

Impulses

Measure
He came smiling like a warm April
poised to measure
the incalculable he came to count
the limitless
smiling in July’s high noon
to melt our hands frosted
bleak sensation brother
left us with a void
when the siren’s song is hushed
by south winds carrying
whistles and sand sounds from
desert expanse where
the camel rider
with his desolate song came smiling

https://draft2digital.com/book/3744513

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073565