I adore Sundays.
I wake each week to Church bells chiming, the sounds of many different birds and the distant grumble of traffic. My own personal alarm clock.
Strong old coffee served with porridge and honey, Radio 4 mumbling in the background like a dearly beloved friend.
A lazy day ahead, perhaps a winter walk to the woods to see the Handsel trees and a stop off at the local.
No twist of the arm required.
Rosy cheeks and cold tips of noses warm gently by the open fire as we settle back and listen to the gentle hub of conversation.
Reluctant goodbyes will come soon after and homeward bound we go.
The end of Sunday draws closer.
Until the next time..... x
Sunday 22 November 2009
Tuesday 3 November 2009
A long Time Dead
Eustace hadn't left the house all summer.
The long warm days rolled into longer hazy nights as time took its toll on all things giddy & bright.
It was only the crisp, sweet, smell of the overgrowing Jasmine plants in her wild and weather ravaged garden on one particular dazzling morning that finally bought her to her bewildered and frightened senses.
On that day, that long fateful day, she eased herself with great awkwardness & difficulty out of her badly worn but trusted armchair and fumbled blindly for her gnarled & ancient walking stick. She hobbled painfully along the corridor until she reached the vast atrium at the centre of her house.
Eustace leant gratefully against the doorframe.
There was still blood on the floor.
Dried & caked, a pungent smell of iron that cloyed heavily in the air.
She fumbled for her cigarettes. Wizened, ancient hands with thick rivers of blue veins running through them, patted her now filthy, purple, waistcoat pockets. She dipped in yellow, stained fingers and out they came. Her poisonous faithful friends. She struggled as she always did now with the matches, but once lit, inhaled deeply and happily.
For a few seconds all could be forgotten as the first rush of nicotine and tar hit her already blackened heart and lungs.
There was still blood on the floor.
Sunlight spilt through the windows making the dark cloud shaped puddle seem brighter and Eustace thought not really like real blood at all.
And yet.
Eustace wished from the depths of her tortured soul that it could be.
A solitary tear leant itself to her melancholy.
She furiously brushed at her eye; wiping the tear away for fear that more would come.
There could only be one way now.
With great pain she walked across the marble floor and around the taunting pool of crimson death, to the imposing front doors of the Manor house.
With one last effort Eustace pushed open the heavy doors. Blinding sunshine bore down upon her, yet there was a darkness to the situation that threatened the air.
They had come for her. Yet again they had come.
The blood in the manor house would remain even when washed away.
Eustace looked back one last time as heavy hands grabbed fragile wrists.
They would never find the body.
The long warm days rolled into longer hazy nights as time took its toll on all things giddy & bright.
It was only the crisp, sweet, smell of the overgrowing Jasmine plants in her wild and weather ravaged garden on one particular dazzling morning that finally bought her to her bewildered and frightened senses.
On that day, that long fateful day, she eased herself with great awkwardness & difficulty out of her badly worn but trusted armchair and fumbled blindly for her gnarled & ancient walking stick. She hobbled painfully along the corridor until she reached the vast atrium at the centre of her house.
Eustace leant gratefully against the doorframe.
There was still blood on the floor.
Dried & caked, a pungent smell of iron that cloyed heavily in the air.
She fumbled for her cigarettes. Wizened, ancient hands with thick rivers of blue veins running through them, patted her now filthy, purple, waistcoat pockets. She dipped in yellow, stained fingers and out they came. Her poisonous faithful friends. She struggled as she always did now with the matches, but once lit, inhaled deeply and happily.
For a few seconds all could be forgotten as the first rush of nicotine and tar hit her already blackened heart and lungs.
There was still blood on the floor.
Sunlight spilt through the windows making the dark cloud shaped puddle seem brighter and Eustace thought not really like real blood at all.
And yet.
Eustace wished from the depths of her tortured soul that it could be.
A solitary tear leant itself to her melancholy.
She furiously brushed at her eye; wiping the tear away for fear that more would come.
There could only be one way now.
With great pain she walked across the marble floor and around the taunting pool of crimson death, to the imposing front doors of the Manor house.
With one last effort Eustace pushed open the heavy doors. Blinding sunshine bore down upon her, yet there was a darkness to the situation that threatened the air.
They had come for her. Yet again they had come.
The blood in the manor house would remain even when washed away.
Eustace looked back one last time as heavy hands grabbed fragile wrists.
They would never find the body.
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