Category Archives: Friday fiction

What I’ll be reading this Christmas… #ChristmasReads

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week’s fiction gives you the selection of books I’ll be hunkering down to read by the fire this Christmas (mince pie optional)

 

511zx2tBALL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_

The Tea Planter’s Wife – Dinah Jefferies

A dear friend of mine, this is Dinah’s unforgettable new (and Sunday Times bestselling!) novel, The Tea Planter’s Wife is a haunting, tender portrait of a woman forced to choose between her duty as a wife and her instinct as a mother…

Buy here

The Well – Catherine Chanter

51aSPnU8ciL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_When Ruth Ardingly and her family first drive up from London in their grime-encrusted car and view The Well, they are enchanted by a jewel of a place, a farm that appears to offer everything the family are searching for. An opportunity for Ruth. An escape for Mark. A home for their grandson Lucien. A Richard & Judy book club pick.

Buy here 

The Kind Worth Killing – Peter Swanson

A critically acclaimed novel, delayed in London, Ted Severson meets a woman at the airport bar. Over cocktails they tell each other 51xhf1bAusL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_rather more than they should, and a dark plan is hatched – but are either of them being serious, could they actually go through with it and, if they did, what would be their chances of getting away with it?

Buy here 

The Humans – Matt Haig

After an ‘incident’ one wet Friday night where Professor Andrew Martin is found walking naked through the streets of Cambridge, he ihumanss not feeling quite himself. Food sickens him. Clothes confound him. Even his loving wife and teenage son are repulsive to him. He feels lost amongst a crazy alien species and hates everyone on the planet. Everyone, that is, except Newton, and he’s a dog.  What could possibly make someone change their mind about the human race. . . ? Love Matt Haig’s award-winning writing, and Humans is a fine example of it (I’m five pages in).

Buy here 

So there you go – that’s my Christmas reading list – what’s yours?

So, this is the first ever short story I’ve ever read aloud… #FridayReads

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week it’s a short story that came Runner Up in the Wotton Arts Festival short story comp…

A couple of years back before I not only got published, but even bagged an agent, I entered the Wotton Arts Short Story competition – and came runner-up. It was an exciting moment and, in fact, later that month I decided to throw myself into writing an idea for a thriller – that idea was for  Subject 375 and the Project trilogy.

Anyhoo, I read the story out at a short story event in Stroud last Sunday and, not only was it the first time I’d read any of my short stories aloud, it was quite a poignant, emotional thing to do given the year I won, I decided to try to get published. It brought that whole year back.

So, here you go, this Friday, my short…

“The woman who walked to school”

When Margaret turned up at the school gates, she couldn’t remember how she’d got there. She knew she had walked, always had; but no, that wasn’t it. She simply couldn’t recall the journey.

The village where she lived was a holding area for commuters, families and people with lives. On a Monday, Margaret would watch them from her lounge window and wonder what they were doing, where they were going. She always imagined they had busy, important things to do; doctors, lawyers, teachers. She would get up, flip on the kettle and check the time. She used to have a life. And now? Now it was as if the world was carrying on without her.

Grassmore Village was postcard-perfect, with the Church at its heart. Her name down on the helper rota, Margaret walked to Church with Thomas about twice a week to give the place a quick vacuum, but, with Thomas now a toddler and into everything, she found it hard to keep up, his endless investigations into hymn books, trees and dog poo, exhausting. When she saw the other mothers outside school, she imagined

Rural field with views to St. Michaels Church in the Cotswolds village of Broadway, Worcestershire, England, United Kingdom, Europe

they never had to deal with a child brandishing a stick of dog muck at them. These mothers arrived glistening, polished and utterly protected from mud and nature, their high heels un-scuffed, their fingernails shining and their hair styled. They somehow reminded Margaret of fresh candy floss – sweet, pink and popular. These women were so composed, so well managed, so…together. They were also together as a group. Every summer’s day they would converse with each other at the gates in fresh, delicate words, words so beautifully blended that if she could pop one in her mouth she imagined it would taste of the lightest lemon mouse. The group was something that Margaret felt, with her frayed skirt, greying hair and baggy t-shirt, she could never be a part of. Ironic, she thought, that this is what it had come to. It almost made her laugh. In her teens, Margaret used to be something of a popular girl at school, not too showy or tarty, but simply pretty, bright and fun. And, now here she was, at school once more, watching the other pretty, bright, fun ones and wishing she were one of them.

The morning when the Vicar first asked her to prepare the soup for the Friends of the Church lunch, Margaret thought he was joking. Do the soup with a toddler in tow? She’d end up wearing the soup, not eating it. Yet the idea, as she soon discovered, was not for her to actually eat any of the soup herself, but to prepare it at home, transport it to the Church and serve it. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell the Vicar where he could shove his soup. Yet, saying no was hard for Margaret, and so, when she agreed to help, her shoulders dropped and her heart sank. This was her life.

And so it was that on a summer’s morning Margaret found herself entombed inside the Church, shivering and heaving a bucket-sized pot of vegetable soup into the serving area. With Thomas already playing cars on the floor, she side stepped a Matchbox Ford and promptly dropped her bag, the contents spilling to the floor. For a moment she just stood, clutching the soup. She looked at her things: a hair band, a bus ticket, broken breadsticks, nappies, biscuit crumbs, fluff from the carpet at home, tractor books. This was her, these were the items that represented her, who she was, what she was about. When she saw the other mums’ handbags, all soft leather, buckles and brand names, she knew those bags would hold items that kept each owner individual: a bit of Chanel here, a new scarf there, a mobile phone holding a lively social calendar. To Margaret, those women, they were still themselves. But, who was she?

            At the end of the soup lunch, Margaret was exhausted. She’d served and cleaned, and all with one eye on Thomas, who, in his two-year-old wisdom, had decided that the Church was his new racetrack. To her surprise, no one helped. At not one time did any of the Friends, including the Vicar, offer to assist Margaret with the serving or keep an eye on Thomas for her. By the end, her forehead was damp, her hair wild and her stomach rumbling. ‘Oh,’ the women said, smiling as they rose to leave, opening the Church doors, the July sunshine flooding in, ‘that turned out so well, so easy. We must do it again. We raised £75.’ ‘Yes,’ they all agreed, pleased. ‘What a success, let’s do this again.’ Margaret could by now only manage a weak smile and a nod, but, as she popped Thomas on the potty before she began the washing up, she watched the women bustle out and realised she had a choice. She realised that she didn’t have to do this anymore.

From that day, Margaret tried to make herself feel a little better. Like an amnesia sufferer experiencing flashbacks, from time to time she would recall snippets of her former self. She would remember how she used pay regular visits to the hairdresser, how she’d have long, candlelit baths, how her diary would be well thumbed and overused, how she’d meet her husband for drinks in a bar after work just because it was fun.

Wiping Weetabix from her sleeve, the following Monday Margaret began her usual journey to school. This week it was ‘Walk to School Week’, and she was always mildly intrigued to see the usual 4x4s and sharp tailoring replaced with weather-ready wellies and battered brollies. Margaret watched as these glamazons marched their offspring to school with their heads held high and their make up in place. If the day was sunny, out would come their floaty maxi dresses, Birkenstocks and cashmere cardigans, all the time with Margaret watching them, pulling at her t-shirt wishing she has hidden at home.

            So, it was during this week, when Margaret was scuttling to and from school, that Thomas happened to step on the hem of the dress of one of the glamorous mothers.

‘Oh, my, I’m so, so sorry. Thomas! Here, let me,’ Margaret said to the woman, reaching to wipe the dress.

‘Please, no. Thank you,’ replied the mother. Margaret stepped back. ‘I’m Helen, by the way,’ the mother said, holding out her hand. Margaret squinted in the sun and propped her hand on her brow.

‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, ‘I didn’t ask your name.’

‘Margaret,’ said Margaret, thinking how the woman’s voice was all chocolate soufflé. Hers, she thought, was more of an upside down cake.

The two shook hands. ‘Well, nice to meet you,’ said Helen who began to walk away, then, hesitating turned back. ‘Look, Margaret, we’re having a summer party at our place in a fortnight. 16th July. Just a few drinks, barbeque, that type of thing. It’s eight until late. You should come.’

Margaret smiled; she suddenly felt light-headed.

‘Um, I think I have something with my address’, said Helen, rummaging through her bag. ‘Ah.’ She pulled out a card and handed it to Margaret. ‘This is us. Address is on there. Please do come, your other half, too. Would be simply lovely to get to know you, have a chat.’

Margaret gazed at the card with its gold lettering. ‘Oh, um, yes,’ she said, looking up. ‘Yes, I’d…well, I’d love to, thank you.’ Thomas pulled at Helen’s dress. Margaret took his hand.

Helen smiled. ‘Isn’t he a poppet? Well, nice to meet you.’

Margaret grasped Thomas’ fist. ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘nice to meet you, too.’

            For the next week, Margaret felt as if she were floating like one of those maxi dresses in the breeze. While she couldn’t bring herself to stand and have a full conversation with the glamorous group, on Tuesday, she did manage to smile at them. On Wednesday, she looked in the mirror and reached for the hairbrush. On Thursday she popped on some blusher. And on Friday she slipped on a dress. Mercifully, Thomas had now begun nursery, so, after walk-to-school week was over, one morning a week, Margaret had a window of freedom for herself. But, first, she just had the Church vacuuming to do.

‘Ah, Maggie,’ said the Vicar when he saw her, ‘just the person.’

‘Hello.’

‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if you could host and serve at the annual visit by the Bishop? We’re all very excited! It would only be for the evening,’ he smiled, ‘and you do do it so well.’

Margaret pulled her cardigan tight. ‘Um, which evening is it?’

‘Let me see now…Ah yes, Saturday. 16th July. That alright?’

Helen’s party. Margaret felt her heart race. ‘Um, I’ll have to check my diary. I think I may have…Well, I may something on.’

His face dropped. ‘Oh. Oh, of course. We may struggle without you though, Maggie. You’re a real shoulder to lean on.’ And with that, he left Margaret to her vacuuming.

            No energy left in her, Margaret switched off the machine and let out a breath. It sounded daft, she supposed, but was this the way it was always going to be? Was she forever to be viewed as a shoulder to lean on? A doormat? Yes, everyone could rely on her. Yes, she found it hard to say no, found it hard to walk away from people and situations when help was needed. But sometimes…sometimes she just wished it wasn’t always so. She had never asked for any help, even at the hardest of times. When her husband was ill in hospital, when her kids where sick and she was out of milk and bread, or when she was struggling to come to terms with the death of her father – she would simply cry herself to sleep. She wasn’t a shoulder to lean on; she was a mound of jelly to be squashed with one thud.

            Saturday 16th July came and went and Margaret stayed at home. She called Helen and sent her apologies, and she contacted the Vicar and said she was sick. In a way she was. While she didn’t like to lie, she knew she couldn’t face anyone. She was fed up; fed up of her life as it was. Something had to give. As the final week of the school summer term came to a close, Monday morning popped up again and Margaret closed the door to walk to school. Once at the gates and the eldest waved off, Margaret was picking up Thomas when she heard footsteps running up behind her.

‘Margaret!’ came a breathless voice.

Margaret turned. Helen stood, shoulders heaving, bag slid to her arm.

‘So glad I caught you!’ said Helen, fanning her face. ‘God, I’m so unfit. I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it to the party. How you feeling now? Better? God, heels are hell.’

Margaret tucked a hair behind her ear. ‘I’m okay, thank you. I’m better.’ She popped Thomas on to her hip.

‘Oh good,’ said Helen. ‘Look, a few of us are going for a coffee. Fancy joining us?’

‘Um…’ Margaret squeezed Thomas close. Coffee? Her?

‘Oh,’ said Helen, taking this for rejection, ‘sorry, you must be so busy. We always marvel how you’re so energetic, all that walking and so patient with the kids and Church. We’re all in awe of you.’

Margaret frowned. ‘Really?’

Helen nodded. ‘Yes. That’s why we’ve never really plucked up the nerve to talk to you. Sounds daft, doesn’t it? God, I’m sorry. It’s just you seem so,’ she searched for the word, ‘together.’

Margaret let out a laugh.

Helen laughed, too. ‘So, fancy a quick coffee? Bring Thomas?’

Margaret smiled. ‘That would be lovely.’ And so, with the morning sun on her back, Margaret, for the first time, headed off from school for coffee and a chat with the group of mums.

 

Bridge of Spies is as poignant today as it was in the 60s #FilmReview

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday. This week I’m reviewing the new release film Bridge of Spies (Dir: Steven Spielberg). 

I thought it would be dull, Bridge of Spies. You know those old black and white movies where time stands still and all you can hear is a wooden clock ticking in the background, daring something to happen? Yeah, that. But while there were clocks ticking, they certainty weren’t slow in what is a tense, intelligent thriller from critically-acclaimed Director, Steven Spielberg.

Set in the 1960s cold war era, Bridge of Spies centres around a Russian spy who’s caught by the CIA, and, going to trial, requires representation as per USA statute. Step forward Tom Hanks. Ah,BridgeOfSpies_060615_263x351 Tom. Rather now like a familiar grandfather, Tom plays the insurance lawyer picked to defend the Russian spy, even though he hasn’t performed criminal law in years. And that’s where the story really starts – with the relationship between Hanks’ character James Donovan and the Russian spy, Rudolf Abel played by the very talented Mark Rylance – and what a sublime job he does.

Statue still and barely moving, Rylance portrays the role of a man not resigned to his fate, but instead at ease with it and the world, whatever guise it is in. When Hanks’ Donovan asks him, upon the event of significant development, ‘Aren’t you worried?’ Abel replies, on more than one occasion, simply, ‘Would it help?’ And that really sums up not only the spy’s character, but the relationship, the friendship even, that grows between these two men.

But of course, being a thriller, a lot more happens. This film is set at a time when Germany was divided into east and west and we see that on the screen, not only the wall going up, but the direct consequences it has. It is sharp, atmospheric, a big winter soup of a movie with added kick. And it gets you thinking. Thinking of double standards, of how, when it comes down to it, governments demand certain behaviour of others, yet do not always display that same behaviour themselves. This film get you thinking about friendship and cultures and how sometimes we just need to be, well, nicer to each other, really. It may be from the 60s, but Bridge of Spies plays on themes that are just as relevant – and poignant – today.

The only downer? It’s a tad slow in the middle, could do with a scene or two ending up on the cutting floor, but still, Spielberg has made an oil painting of a film, one that, each time you peer at it looks just a little different. And it’s that difference, that perspective it gives – well, it’s weird, really, but it kind of follows you around even after you’ve left the cinema and you’re walking home in the pouring rain. Because, you see, when I got royally soaked by a passing truck and immediately went to my default ‘Aaargh!’ mode, I stopped, as, without even realizing, from the shadows of the movie I had just watched, one sentence drifted slap centre in my head: ‘Would it help?’

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Bridge of Spies is currently showing at cinemas across the UK & worldwide

 

Agree with the review or totally disagree? Comment below.

 

 

#FridayReads: My review of Stasi Child by David Young

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday.This week’s fiction gives you my review of the debut thriller Stasi Child by David Young (Twenty7Books)

Let’s go from the start here. Set in East Berlin, 1975, this novel features Oberleutnant Karin Muller and her deputy, Unterleutnant Werner Tilsner, with the narrative starting when Muller and Tilsner are called to investigate the broken body of a young girl by the Berlin Wall (except Young has a different, more Orwellian name for the wall:  the ‘Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier.’)

When Muller and Tilsner arrive at the scene, there is a Stasi officer, stasiKlaus Jager there, ahead of them, and they are to assist him. Not the other way around.  Cue then not only an investigation into a girl  fleeing from the West and escaping into the East, but something altogether more powerful, deep and sinister.

Atmospheric and achingly haunting at times, this novel paints a scene of a world we thought we knew and yet, when we read on, we soon understand that what we thought of the former East Germany is just the tip of the iceberg. Young, with his debut, has created a constant, tense string of not only intrigue, but emotion too. I remember the Berlin wall falling. I remember images when I was young of people trying to climb over it, of being shot in the  process.

This debut works the main characters well. Interwoven and developed, it plays out the narrative and plot, as you move through the pages, with skill.

Deep and dark, this debut is utterly gripping, sucking you in straight from the get go. Fascinating backdrop, well observed characters and a corker of an ending. All in all, superb.

Out now in e-book, the paperback version is out in February 2016. Available on Amazon here 

 

#SPECTRE is, basically, sexist…

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday.

This week we’re taking a slight detour & reviewing the film Spectre. Oh. My. Days…

I don’t know what I expected, really. Action? Sure. Deaths. Aye. Swanky gadgets. Where do I press? But what I did not expect, despite the legacy, despite the decades of decadence, was the out-and-out sexism. There. I said it. Namely, the latest Bond movie is a sexist show.

From the very beginning titles even, the new Bond film is all about strong men and weak women. The rolling titles feature, basically, naked woman writhing around Bond with the odd snake thrown in, real snakes that is. I won’t even contemplate the imagery for Bond’s trouser area.

Now look, sure, I’m not naive here, I know how the Bond franchise works: slick secret agent, shaken not stirred, an eye for the ladies. But, with the emergence of the Bourne films, the raw, visceralspectre-poster-black-white quality of them, their realness, the straight forward, actual depiction they give of women – how we are basically equal – the Bond films changed. They had to up their game to compete with this new real Bourne character that director John Greengrass had created.

So Casino Royale was better. It was less, ‘ladies’ and more, well, normal. In a good way. It slipped a little with Skyfall, Miss Moneypenny starting out as a tough agent then being relaxed to a secretary, but still, it was trying. Heck, the reason I switched the main character of my thriller to a strong woman was because I was sick of films like the Bond franchise portraying women as weak. Yet Spectre is out-and-out just for the lads. It was cringey. There were lines in the film that were simply clunky. The first female character, a widow played by Monica Bellucci – well Bond, frankly, shagged her and left. Then the next female, a character played by Lea Seydoux who first appeared strong, eventually submitted to Bond’s charms with the line, after a man was killed, ‘So, what next?’ This was followed by, yes, you’ve guessed it, them, ahem, shagging. And this woman is a good twenty years younger than Bond.

I know a lot of people will read this and say, what did you expect? It’s Bond! He loves the ladies! get over yourself. But why should I accept that? I brought my daughters to watch the film and I was so utterly disappointed that they had to see, for two hours, women being objectified and portrayed consistently as weak, for them to see a woman ‘in need of protection’, who says she’s scared only for a man looking after her.

It’s tiring. Even when the blonde female character showed strength, it had to be pointed out. Why can’t films just show strong women without any explanation of why or how they are strong? You don’t see Bond going around defending why he’s got big muscles or saying he can shoot, thanks, that he doesn’t need anyone to do it for him.

Sam Mendes, director of Bond, please, re think your strategy. Women are strong. Depict us as so. Because my daughters one day will be adults with money to spend , and if films like Bond continue to degrade them, they won’t be spending their cash watching those films any time soon.

Next week’s review: Stasi Child by David Young

Agree with the Spectre review or totally disagree? Comment below.

 

 

#fridayreads: My review of Burnt Paper Sky by Gilly Macmillan…

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday.

This week’s fiction gives you my review of Burnt Paper Sky by Gilly Macmillan (Piatkus £8.99)

If you’re a parent, imagine taking your eyes off your child for a split second and then losing them. This is what happens to Rachel, the main character in the amazing novel that is Burnt Paper Sky, and boy is it an emotional read.

What ensues after Rachel’s son, Ben, goes missing is a huge search during 25343473which everyone, including Rachel, is put under suspicion, and in today’s world of intense social media and 24-hour TV news pressure, it’s a suspicion that the public get well behind.

What Gilly Macmillan has done with this story is get to the raw nerve of not only the utter despair of losing a child (amidst, what turns out, is the break up of her marriage), but of how we as a society are so quick to judge and accuse, especially hiding behind the veil of internet guises. The writing in the novel is sharp, taut with social media put to clever use with emails and transcriptions weaved within the narrative. The cumulative result is powerful, gripping and very, very emotional.

It’s a real page turner and really looking forward to the next novel. And if you want to know what it’s like revealing a new book for the first time, what the Burnt Paper Sky vid below…

 

#fridayreads: My review of Husk by J.K. Messum…

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday.

This week’s fiction gives you my review of Husk by J.K.Messum (Penguin £8.99)

Alright, I have to fess up here – I know Jamie. Okay, so not know him – I’ve never met him, as yet, but virtually, we have chatted, and by that I mean over social media. Let me assure you – I am not his stalker. We are, instead, friends via  the same literary agency we share, PFD.

So, you would think, given that bias, that any review I give herehusk would be coloured by loyalty to my fellow author, but you’d be wrong. Because, I cannot tell you how cracking this novel of Jamie’s is, I mean seriously rocking.

A kind of dystopian setting, it centres round Rhodes – and Rhodes is a ‘Husk’. A Husk, see, is, an illegal, controversial and highly lucrative job where people rent out control of their bodies and minds to the highest bidder. I know right? In the world the book paints, being a Husk is a sure way to gain a better life, but some of the people who rent out Rhodes’ body go too far and often he wakes up with scars. Cue a sinister story and clever plot.

Normally, this kind of genre is not for me, but I had to read Husk. Jamie won an award for his first novel, Bait (the Arthur Ellis Award For Best First Novel 2014), and I can see why he got the acclaim. I have no idea, even as a writer myself, how Jamie came up with this whole Husk, rent out bodies premise (maybe I shouldn’t ask…?), but boy what an imagination. Gripping from page one, no wonder it’s been optioned for an international TV series. Would be great on screen as well as the page.

So this Friday, go by Husk.  And if that hasn’t wet your appetite then Jamie’s cracking trailer made by publishers Penguin, no less, will…

#fridayreads: A poem about depression by my 17-yr old self…

fiction-fridayWelcome to Fiction Friday.

This week, in hail to yesterday’s National Poetry Day, and ahead of tomorrow’s World Mental Health day, I’m (bravely) posting a poem I wrote when I was 17. Let me say that again: when I was 17. I’m 42 now…

Back then, I was poetry obsessed. I remember I was going through a tricky social stage and was probably, now I recall it all, feeling down. So I did what I knew best and wrote – in this case, a poem.

It’s an account, a comment, I guess, on the hectic quality of life (even then before social media), of feeling down and how things can conspire, how that can make you feel.

Sure, the poem, as poems do, plays heavily on emotional elements, but

The original poem in my 17-year old self scrawl...
The original poem in my 17-year old self scrawl…

the premise is there. I’m quite proud, looking back now, that I was brave enough to put down my feelings – on what was what I now understand to be depression –  on to paper.  Thankfully, the feelings didn’t last for long as life moved on, but it was a tricky time – you know the score: friend troubles, exams, you name it. And writing, well, writing was my safety net. It caught me when I fell and helped me get back up on two feet again, ready to walk, then later run, to what ever lay ahead.

So, I’ll continue that bravery and share this with you today. Welcome to the mind of my 17 year old self. Gulp…

“Flight of the Dragon”

The gigantic blue sea dragon storm through the skies,

As he comes into my dreams and opens my eyes.

His head turns to my head and transfers my mind,

To make me think like all of mankind.

 

Helplessly I struggle and try to break free,

For the images that appear are not common to me:

An evil black shadow grabs at the dead,

And the blood that seeps out is no longer red.

A swooping green vulture tears at the poor,

And their possessions are robbed just as once before.

 

At this point I jerk and uneasily move around,

As my body floats up then falls to the ground.

But then on the ground large snakes appear,

And the blood in my veins is injected with fear.

They slide across my body and pierce my soul,

While their venom once inside me erodes a deep hole.

The hole pulls me through and caves me in,

Trapped in a battle impossible to win.

 

The sun then rises and fills me with hope,

As I struggle to sever the deadly sharp rope.

But just as my spirits begin to rise,

The sun turns to black to meet my demise.

 

I turn back and forth frantic for a way out,

And once panic sets in I begin to shout.

Then I hear a faint noise, and my adrenaline starts pumping,

As my meager hope of life rapidly start slumping.

 

I slowly look around, and from the corner of my eye,

I see an angry pound of dogs standing nearby.

The palms of my hands turn red raw,

As I pull at the rope more and more.

The dogs starts to move, slowly at first,

But I know that their anger is soon to burst.

 

Then quickly they pound nearer and nearer still,

As I am kept as their victim against my will.

I slip to the ground in hopeless despair,

As I tear at the ground and grasp at my hair.

 

Then through the darkness appears a light,

And for the first time ever I put up a fight.

I can see the vultures circling above,

As the dogs become quiet like the coo of a dove.

 

Then the gigantic blue sea dragon storms through the skies,

As he comes into my dreams and opens my eyes.

My sleep becomes steady and ridden of fear,

As I know that my dragon is no longer near.

And his head pulls from my head and leaves my mind,

And no longer must I think like all of mankind.