The final door was right at the back of the room and was shadowed by the corner. As she moved toward it, the pulse beat got louder, but the rhythm was changing, it was becoming more erratic. She stood in front of door and the shock she felt as she read what was written on it almost shook her to her core. One word, beautifully written in fine gothic lettering ‘Alice’ . The door started to pulse in time with the heartbeat, stuttering and faltering at times, fading and rising and she felt her own heartbeat echoing its song. She reached forward, grasped the handle and opened the door.
Her first impression was of a bright warm light that pulsed in the same way as the sound, she blinked and noticed that this room was longer than the others and that there was something almost hidden within the light right at the back of the room. Her breathing felt tired and tight but she needed to see what was there before she took a rest. She walked forward.
As she approached the back of the room, the image revealed itself to her. It was not a drawing or a photograph but was an actual physical presence in the room. A white tombstone, surrounded by red and white marble chips and vases of white flowers. She dropped to her knees in front of it. The beat and her heart shuddered and stuttered as one as she tried to catch her breath, it drew in, rattling in her chest. Everything she had felt and seen while lost in the maze of corridors and rooms started to flash in front of her eyes. Every physical sensation repeated itself, but they all felt stronger, as if they were battering against her body. She could feel the remaining strength leeching out of her. What could this mean? She was too young, only 63, she had years yet. The beat faltered again, getting weaker and weaker. Her heart fluttered in her chest, it made her think of a butterfly trapped within a spider’s web. It was getting harder to breath, to think, to live. She felt herself start to slump, her vision seemed to blur, on her last breath she struggled to read the inscription on the stone again ‘ Alice Carroll - died October 31st 2012, aged 63 . She got lost in rabbit holes’.
The End.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Corridor - part 6
The smell hit her first, sweet but acrid at the same time. The whole floor was moving, the white carpet appeared alive and that is where the pattering noise came from. She saw flashes of red amongst the white and then streaks of pinkish grey. The carpet was alive, alive with albino rats. She swallowed the scream the was trying to force itself out of her mouth. She knew she had to face what the room was showing her but to actually manifest one of her fears so physically wasn’t what she had been expecting. Pictures and memories she could deal with but this…………
She forced herself to step into the room, the rat carpet parted and made a path for her, but she could feel them moving around her feet. Pictures of all her nightmares and terrors, some real and some imaginary, stared out at her, starkly black and white in blood red frames. The image she had remembered on the beach was there, the cupboard her Mother used to lock her in as punishment full of dark corners and rustling noises was there as well. The image of the cliff edge where Lewis had jumped to his death over 20 years ago stark and grainy in its splendour, she had made herself go there and stand on the very edge after his funeral. She had wobbled and almost thrown herself over it, only her fear of heights had stopped her. As the horror of the images sank into her brain it felt like her skin was being stretched too tight over her face and that her eyes were starting to bulge like all the air was being sucked out of her, and the room was becoming like a vacuum. She had to get out of there. She felt like the suffocation of her mind was unhinging her further than she was already. She charged out of the room, her limbs totally uncoordinated, kicking rats as she went. She almost threw herself out of the doorway. One more door awaited her………
She stood in the red room, bent over, her hands on knees, breathing hard. She could hear her pulse in her ears, it was beating along with the rhythmic beat that been dogging her journey, she had thought it was drums, but now it appeared closer it did sound more like a heartbeat. She caught her breath and stood straight, the last door awaited her.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
She forced herself to step into the room, the rat carpet parted and made a path for her, but she could feel them moving around her feet. Pictures of all her nightmares and terrors, some real and some imaginary, stared out at her, starkly black and white in blood red frames. The image she had remembered on the beach was there, the cupboard her Mother used to lock her in as punishment full of dark corners and rustling noises was there as well. The image of the cliff edge where Lewis had jumped to his death over 20 years ago stark and grainy in its splendour, she had made herself go there and stand on the very edge after his funeral. She had wobbled and almost thrown herself over it, only her fear of heights had stopped her. As the horror of the images sank into her brain it felt like her skin was being stretched too tight over her face and that her eyes were starting to bulge like all the air was being sucked out of her, and the room was becoming like a vacuum. She had to get out of there. She felt like the suffocation of her mind was unhinging her further than she was already. She charged out of the room, her limbs totally uncoordinated, kicking rats as she went. She almost threw herself out of the doorway. One more door awaited her………
She stood in the red room, bent over, her hands on knees, breathing hard. She could hear her pulse in her ears, it was beating along with the rhythmic beat that been dogging her journey, she had thought it was drums, but now it appeared closer it did sound more like a heartbeat. She caught her breath and stood straight, the last door awaited her.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Monday, October 29, 2012
The Corridor - part 5
Slipping on her shoes, she moved on her continuing journey. She felt like her free will was gone and she was being led with no choices at all. The last door hadn’t been ajar and she had opened it in her fear and panic. Now every door she passed with a handle she tried to open but all were shut tight against her. Some doors were completely blank, no numbers or handles. Just when the monotony was becoming unbearable she noticed the next door had a handle and no numbers, she tried it, it opened.
She stood in the doorway feeling uneasy. It was a red room lined with 4 doors, she could see three doors clearly and each of these had a word on it, like the ones in the red corridor that had flashed into view earlier, and each was covered in numbers all written in different styles and fonts. The first door was labelled ‘Sorrow’. There must have been at least 20 numbers, maybe more on it. She opened it and went in.
It was like being in a very small gallery. The walls were filled with images, all neatly framed in black. She leaned forward and looked carefully at the first one. It was a picture of a funeral and she was in the picture. The coffin was in the foreground, it had a floral arrangement on the lid made into the word ‘Mum’ in white flowers, and she and a few other mourners stood slightly hazy in the background. She moved onto the next one. This showed a picture of a mound of earth with a childish cross made out of wooden lolly sticks stuck in it, there was a name in black crayon written on it ‘Dinah’. Moving swiftly on she looked at picture after picture, she knew what to expect now, each one portrayed a sorrow of her life from deaths to disappointments. She retraced her steps, left the room and stood in front of the next door. The next door was labelled ‘Joy’. There were less numbers on this door but still enough to peak her curiosity. She tried the handle, again it opened, again she entered.
This room was light and bright, there were more pictures but this time framed in silver and gold. She stood before the first picture and stared at it. There she was, 18, beautiful in her bridal gown, surrounded by friends and family and there was Lewis smiling down at her, she had been radiant at that moment. She took a second or two to drink in the image, it had been many years since she had seen it, then she moved on. Every image in that room was a moment of pleasure, reflecting through her entire life, from childhood tea parties to her sons graduation from University. She didn’t want to leave these moments ever again. But there were two more rooms and she was known for her curious nature, so she closed the door and stood in front of the next one.
This door had a pitted and warped appearance and was labelled ‘Fear’. From behind the door she could still hear that pattering noise but it sounded louder than before. There were less numbers here but they were painted onto the wood in dark red slashes. She felt intense trepidation but she opened the door anyway.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
She stood in the doorway feeling uneasy. It was a red room lined with 4 doors, she could see three doors clearly and each of these had a word on it, like the ones in the red corridor that had flashed into view earlier, and each was covered in numbers all written in different styles and fonts. The first door was labelled ‘Sorrow’. There must have been at least 20 numbers, maybe more on it. She opened it and went in.
It was like being in a very small gallery. The walls were filled with images, all neatly framed in black. She leaned forward and looked carefully at the first one. It was a picture of a funeral and she was in the picture. The coffin was in the foreground, it had a floral arrangement on the lid made into the word ‘Mum’ in white flowers, and she and a few other mourners stood slightly hazy in the background. She moved onto the next one. This showed a picture of a mound of earth with a childish cross made out of wooden lolly sticks stuck in it, there was a name in black crayon written on it ‘Dinah’. Moving swiftly on she looked at picture after picture, she knew what to expect now, each one portrayed a sorrow of her life from deaths to disappointments. She retraced her steps, left the room and stood in front of the next door. The next door was labelled ‘Joy’. There were less numbers on this door but still enough to peak her curiosity. She tried the handle, again it opened, again she entered.
This room was light and bright, there were more pictures but this time framed in silver and gold. She stood before the first picture and stared at it. There she was, 18, beautiful in her bridal gown, surrounded by friends and family and there was Lewis smiling down at her, she had been radiant at that moment. She took a second or two to drink in the image, it had been many years since she had seen it, then she moved on. Every image in that room was a moment of pleasure, reflecting through her entire life, from childhood tea parties to her sons graduation from University. She didn’t want to leave these moments ever again. But there were two more rooms and she was known for her curious nature, so she closed the door and stood in front of the next one.
This door had a pitted and warped appearance and was labelled ‘Fear’. From behind the door she could still hear that pattering noise but it sounded louder than before. There were less numbers here but they were painted onto the wood in dark red slashes. She felt intense trepidation but she opened the door anyway.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Sunday, October 28, 2012
The Corridor - part 4.
She started to walk forward along the corridor again what else could she do? She wasn’t really paying attention to the doors any more, just putting one foot in front of the other, the carpet cushioned her steps and muted the sounds of her movement. The lights were still flickering and the beat and the pattering echoed now, all around her. Her feet started to drag, it wasn’t just tiredness and despair that was pulling her down, she realised with a start that the carpet was becoming sodden, it was beginning to squelch under her feet like a quagmire. She continued onward, now the moisture in the carpet was actually sloshing around feet which were wet in her shoes which were moving about awkwardly as she walked. She bent down and slipped them off, carrying them as she moved forward on her stocking feet. The water level kept rising, although she’d only been walking a few minutes she was now dealing with water that was ankle deep, then shin and then almost up to her knees. Her steps were getting laboured, slower and slower, she was no longer what was thought of as young and her breath was coming harder almost a pant now. There was a sudden roaring sound out of nowhere. She looked over her shoulder and with a gasp of horror saw that a torrent of violently churning water was heading at great speed down the corridor towards her. She looked at the nearest door…..number 56, she reached for the handle, yanking at it, with a momentous effort she threw her weight against it and as it burst open, she flung herself inward, blinded and dizzy as she went, making it into the room just before the torrent could hit her.
She landed painfully on her knees, breathing hard, she looked up, more sand? No more like shingle…..she was kneeling on beach, close to the shoreline looking out to sea.
The hammering of waves onto the shingle, soothed her, her breathing eased back to normal, she unfolded her legs to sit in a more comfortable position and waited to see what would be thrown at her next. The gulls wheeled overhead screeching out their calls to each other, the surf came and went with a rhythm all its own, the shingle and pebbles rolled back and forward, and for the first time in what seemed like hours, she felt normal. She looked around, white cliffs rose up to the back of her, wooden groynes jutted out into the sea on either side of the beach she sat on, it all appeared so familiar. She was in Sussex, the memories flooded her mind. What was the number on the door again? 56 - were the numbers linked to years of her life? If so then in 1956 she would have been seven and when she was seven she, her Mum and her Mum’s latest boyfriend had gone on a holiday to the seaside, in Sussex near Climping. Her fear of water and swimming came from that holiday because she had nearly drowned. She had had to be rescued and given the kiss of life. She could perfectly recall the sensation of drowning, the terror of the water rising up over her eyes, cutting off the sight of the beach and safety. The remembrance of trying to feel the pebbly bottom with her feet and there just being more water. She had broken to the surface, arms flailing, trying to call out for help and her mouth had filled with seawater as she had sunk under the waves again and again. Just as she was coming close to exhaustion, she became aware of being hauled up and out of the water and being carried, it seemed such a long journey back to shore but that was allowing for a child’s idea of distance. They had laid her down and she must have passed out because her next and last recollection of the event was of coughing and spluttering and bright sunshine burning her eyes through their lids.
Taking a moment from her recollections, she felt the salt sting of the sea air in her nostrils. So many memories today. Things that had laid lost or dormant for years had come back to haunt her.
Unsteadily she got to her feet, real or imaginary, pebbles were difficult to walk on. She had a feeling she wouldn’t have much longer here, the clouds were scudding by at an unnatural speed as if time was on fast forward. She started to head down to the water, it felt as if she were moving slower than everything else, the scenery was reminiscent one of those time lapse nature programmes on the T.V. She reached the sea and her toes felt the cold sting of water though her torn stockings. Where were her shoes now? She watched the waves lap her feet, they’d never come back to the seaside. The infrequent childhood trips had all been inland after that little adventure. She felt she had missed out by not making the effort in her adult life to come to the very edge of the land, she felt a twinge of regret. As if by a flick of switch or by that last thought, the world dipped and swirled again and she felt the dislocation of movement, with her next breath she was back in the corridor. All signs of the water had gone and nothing else was new other than her shoes stood neatly together right in front of her.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
She landed painfully on her knees, breathing hard, she looked up, more sand? No more like shingle…..she was kneeling on beach, close to the shoreline looking out to sea.
The hammering of waves onto the shingle, soothed her, her breathing eased back to normal, she unfolded her legs to sit in a more comfortable position and waited to see what would be thrown at her next. The gulls wheeled overhead screeching out their calls to each other, the surf came and went with a rhythm all its own, the shingle and pebbles rolled back and forward, and for the first time in what seemed like hours, she felt normal. She looked around, white cliffs rose up to the back of her, wooden groynes jutted out into the sea on either side of the beach she sat on, it all appeared so familiar. She was in Sussex, the memories flooded her mind. What was the number on the door again? 56 - were the numbers linked to years of her life? If so then in 1956 she would have been seven and when she was seven she, her Mum and her Mum’s latest boyfriend had gone on a holiday to the seaside, in Sussex near Climping. Her fear of water and swimming came from that holiday because she had nearly drowned. She had had to be rescued and given the kiss of life. She could perfectly recall the sensation of drowning, the terror of the water rising up over her eyes, cutting off the sight of the beach and safety. The remembrance of trying to feel the pebbly bottom with her feet and there just being more water. She had broken to the surface, arms flailing, trying to call out for help and her mouth had filled with seawater as she had sunk under the waves again and again. Just as she was coming close to exhaustion, she became aware of being hauled up and out of the water and being carried, it seemed such a long journey back to shore but that was allowing for a child’s idea of distance. They had laid her down and she must have passed out because her next and last recollection of the event was of coughing and spluttering and bright sunshine burning her eyes through their lids.
Taking a moment from her recollections, she felt the salt sting of the sea air in her nostrils. So many memories today. Things that had laid lost or dormant for years had come back to haunt her.
Unsteadily she got to her feet, real or imaginary, pebbles were difficult to walk on. She had a feeling she wouldn’t have much longer here, the clouds were scudding by at an unnatural speed as if time was on fast forward. She started to head down to the water, it felt as if she were moving slower than everything else, the scenery was reminiscent one of those time lapse nature programmes on the T.V. She reached the sea and her toes felt the cold sting of water though her torn stockings. Where were her shoes now? She watched the waves lap her feet, they’d never come back to the seaside. The infrequent childhood trips had all been inland after that little adventure. She felt she had missed out by not making the effort in her adult life to come to the very edge of the land, she felt a twinge of regret. As if by a flick of switch or by that last thought, the world dipped and swirled again and she felt the dislocation of movement, with her next breath she was back in the corridor. All signs of the water had gone and nothing else was new other than her shoes stood neatly together right in front of her.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Another one bites the dust
It's just a basic granny stitch, edged with doubles.....simples.
The Corridor -part 3
She must have dozed off, sitting on the floor, lost in her memories, because the next thing she knew was her neck hurt and her left foot had gone to sleep. She raised her head and blinked slowly. No change. Still in a corridor, noises still present. She shook her head to try and clear the cobwebs that sleep had built in her mind but no clear thoughts or explanations presented themselves to her.
Slowly she stood up. The lights seemed to be flickering constantly now, as if all the bulbs were about to blow at once. Her mind was fighting itself, one second resigned, the next angry, the following bewildered and afraid. She had no choice it seemed, no-one had found her, there was still no sign of an exit, so she had to keep moving forward…..or…… what about back the way she’d come? She’d entered the hallway through a door - an entrance which most likely was also an exit! She turned on her heel and walked briskly back the way she’d come. The first door she’d really noticed had been number 78, all she had to do was go back there and surely just on from that would be where she’d entered. She increased her pace, feeling more energised, she couldn’t run but she wanted out of here as quickly as she could damn well manage it.
The numbers were still in an odd order - but where was 78? She been walking for quite a few minutes at a good pace she should have reached it by now, for that matter she hadn’t yet seen the door numbered 64 either. She stopped, put her hands on her hips and spun round to the look the way she’d come, over her shoulder the door was numbered 52, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all. The most ridiculous thought she’d ever had entered her mind and she mentally scoffed at her self for being so stupid as she thought it “it is as if the corridor would not let her move in any direction but forward”. She shook her head again, mentally chastising herself for thinking such things.
Well if she couldn’t move back then forward it was then.
She wondered just how long she’d been here. She wasn’t wearing a watch and she had no idea of the time of day. If she didn’t remember even coming here or where here was then there was no way at all to measure how long she’d been walking in this corridor. The flickering of the lights had started to hurt her eyes and she could feel the beginnings of a headache in her temples. She looked to her left and to her surprise there was another door that was ajar but this one had no number on it at all.
“Oh well’ she thought “in for a penny, in for a pound.” She didn’t bother calling out, she just pushed the door open and stepped through. Another blinding flash of light, the same dizzying dip and swirl and then………
She was in a room about 8ft by 8ft, it felt warm and claustrophobic. There was a damp musty smell and apart from a pile of rags in the corner it was empty. The pile of rags shifted slightly, a coughing sound emerged from them followed by a face. A male face, gaunt and painfully thin, the skin looked liked paper, the eyes were red and rheumy, the whites yellowed the pupils were the smallest of pinpricks. The hacking cough continued for a while then stopped suddenly. The eyes focused straight on her, a grimy veined hand with blackened nails was drawn out from the rags and reached out toward her….he spoke with a voice that sounded cracked as if he had not spoken for years “Ay it’s our Alice, sure it is, after all this time, you found yer old Dad.” She stepped back in alarm. “Nay lass don’t be a feared, you don’t recognise me then? But you was not much more than a bairn when I left were you?” She moved again, her back was against the wall, she had nowhere else to go, for the life of her she couldn’t seem to see the door, she felt trapped.
The ragged figured tried to rise and managed to make it to his knees, his face implored her to reach out to him, his hand stretch further forward, she shrank back almost willing the wall the absorb her. This could not be, she would not allow it to be, her Father would have been dead for years by now. “Oh Alice’ he almost croaked more than spoke, “But what are doing here? Did you not grow up to be a good girl? You shouldn’t be here, at least not now.” She looked more closely at him, almost peering through gloom, he seemed shadowy to her eyes, almost as if he was fading in and out. “My girl” he muttered “My wee girl. You must get out of here. You must flee as if the hounds of hell were on your heels cos if you don’t they may well be so.” He lowered his hand, and almost shrank back into the rags, his eyes closing. She started forward, reaching out, but the pile of rags started to shrink before her eyes and then to smoulder. The stench was acrid and her eyes started to water. Everything shifted, she almost vomited into her mouth, she couldn’t breath at all, then with a shudder a door appeared open before her and she felt herself being violently sucked towards it.
The room had spat her out back into the corridor, still with that strange beat and the pattering noises, which now sounded as if they were all around her. The lights still flickered and the doors stretched away on the either side of her. She felt stunned by what she had experienced, was that real? Could the grimy pile of human rags really have been her Father? Tears were not far away, she felt overwrought and very emotional. Why was this happening to her?
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Slowly she stood up. The lights seemed to be flickering constantly now, as if all the bulbs were about to blow at once. Her mind was fighting itself, one second resigned, the next angry, the following bewildered and afraid. She had no choice it seemed, no-one had found her, there was still no sign of an exit, so she had to keep moving forward…..or…… what about back the way she’d come? She’d entered the hallway through a door - an entrance which most likely was also an exit! She turned on her heel and walked briskly back the way she’d come. The first door she’d really noticed had been number 78, all she had to do was go back there and surely just on from that would be where she’d entered. She increased her pace, feeling more energised, she couldn’t run but she wanted out of here as quickly as she could damn well manage it.
The numbers were still in an odd order - but where was 78? She been walking for quite a few minutes at a good pace she should have reached it by now, for that matter she hadn’t yet seen the door numbered 64 either. She stopped, put her hands on her hips and spun round to the look the way she’d come, over her shoulder the door was numbered 52, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all. The most ridiculous thought she’d ever had entered her mind and she mentally scoffed at her self for being so stupid as she thought it “it is as if the corridor would not let her move in any direction but forward”. She shook her head again, mentally chastising herself for thinking such things.
Well if she couldn’t move back then forward it was then.
She wondered just how long she’d been here. She wasn’t wearing a watch and she had no idea of the time of day. If she didn’t remember even coming here or where here was then there was no way at all to measure how long she’d been walking in this corridor. The flickering of the lights had started to hurt her eyes and she could feel the beginnings of a headache in her temples. She looked to her left and to her surprise there was another door that was ajar but this one had no number on it at all.
“Oh well’ she thought “in for a penny, in for a pound.” She didn’t bother calling out, she just pushed the door open and stepped through. Another blinding flash of light, the same dizzying dip and swirl and then………
She was in a room about 8ft by 8ft, it felt warm and claustrophobic. There was a damp musty smell and apart from a pile of rags in the corner it was empty. The pile of rags shifted slightly, a coughing sound emerged from them followed by a face. A male face, gaunt and painfully thin, the skin looked liked paper, the eyes were red and rheumy, the whites yellowed the pupils were the smallest of pinpricks. The hacking cough continued for a while then stopped suddenly. The eyes focused straight on her, a grimy veined hand with blackened nails was drawn out from the rags and reached out toward her….he spoke with a voice that sounded cracked as if he had not spoken for years “Ay it’s our Alice, sure it is, after all this time, you found yer old Dad.” She stepped back in alarm. “Nay lass don’t be a feared, you don’t recognise me then? But you was not much more than a bairn when I left were you?” She moved again, her back was against the wall, she had nowhere else to go, for the life of her she couldn’t seem to see the door, she felt trapped.
The ragged figured tried to rise and managed to make it to his knees, his face implored her to reach out to him, his hand stretch further forward, she shrank back almost willing the wall the absorb her. This could not be, she would not allow it to be, her Father would have been dead for years by now. “Oh Alice’ he almost croaked more than spoke, “But what are doing here? Did you not grow up to be a good girl? You shouldn’t be here, at least not now.” She looked more closely at him, almost peering through gloom, he seemed shadowy to her eyes, almost as if he was fading in and out. “My girl” he muttered “My wee girl. You must get out of here. You must flee as if the hounds of hell were on your heels cos if you don’t they may well be so.” He lowered his hand, and almost shrank back into the rags, his eyes closing. She started forward, reaching out, but the pile of rags started to shrink before her eyes and then to smoulder. The stench was acrid and her eyes started to water. Everything shifted, she almost vomited into her mouth, she couldn’t breath at all, then with a shudder a door appeared open before her and she felt herself being violently sucked towards it.
The room had spat her out back into the corridor, still with that strange beat and the pattering noises, which now sounded as if they were all around her. The lights still flickered and the doors stretched away on the either side of her. She felt stunned by what she had experienced, was that real? Could the grimy pile of human rags really have been her Father? Tears were not far away, she felt overwrought and very emotional. Why was this happening to her?
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Friday, October 26, 2012
The Corridor - part 2.
A child sat alone in a virtually sand free sand pit, resolutely spooning up what little sand there was into a battered red sand castle bucket. The child was totally absorbed by what it was doing and seemed unaware of anything else…such a pretty little thing with blond curls close to her head wearing an old fashioned hand knit cardigan with pearly buttons, but her cheeks were flushed as if she were chilled. The trees in the garden in which the child was playing were totally bare and the sky was a heavy wintery leaden grey, only the concentration on getting enough sand to make a castle was keeping the child from feeling the cold. ……….
She looked up the length of the garden to see if there was a house in the distance or an adult. It all looked hazy, as if there were a fog she couldn’t see past, the child appeared to not have noticed her or anything else surrounding it as it methodically got on with the task in hand……
Suddenly, the child jerked its head up as if hearing something, its face was totally expressionless and its eyes were empty and black……
She jerked back almost in synchronicity with the child’s reaction, she knew that face, her breath caught in her throat……………
The little girl jumped up, brushing the loose sand from her skirt she started forward towards her, hopping over the edge of the sandpit and breaking into a run…..running now, running at her……………………………
Through her and………………………..gone.
The lights flickered again, the room appeared to swirl around her, she felt as if she was being pushed back, back out of the room and into the corridor…..she cried out “Nooooo” her voice sounded anguished. She staggered and tried to catch her balance, she was falling……………..
She opened her eyes. She was in the corridor, still outside room 52 but the door was shut tight now…there was no handle…she looked left and right, none of the doors had handles. Nothing had changed. The noises were still there but they had lessened almost as if they were now on the edge of her hearing. Why had she seen that? In 1952 she was three years old with little understanding of life and the world she inhabited. All she knew was that it was the year her Father had left them, the last time she’d seen him, called in from the garden to watch him walk down the front path carrying a suitcase….he never came back.
She lent back against the wall and slowly slid down it to sit on the floor, drawing in her knees as close as she could toward her body and wrapping her arms around them. Her head drooped forward onto her knees, her breath shuddered and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d not thought of that day for years but now the memories came flooding back. Banished to the garden whilst her parents fought, she’d spent many hours out there in the sandpit, cold and alone, trying to build a castle with her scanty supply of sand. Her Mother would eventually call her in for tea, red eyed and flustered, her Father absent, there was always an echo of slammed doors and often she had seen newspaper wrapped broken china in the kitchen bin when she had thrown away the remains of her tea.
Why had she seen, or maybe remembered, this now? Her mind was obviously playing tricks on her. She must be having some kind of a nervous breakdown, that could be the only explanation for what was happening to her. She was hallucinating. Someone must have put her here, and here was probably a mental hospital and she was lost in the building. They’d find her soon. Someone must come and help her soon.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
She looked up the length of the garden to see if there was a house in the distance or an adult. It all looked hazy, as if there were a fog she couldn’t see past, the child appeared to not have noticed her or anything else surrounding it as it methodically got on with the task in hand……
Suddenly, the child jerked its head up as if hearing something, its face was totally expressionless and its eyes were empty and black……
She jerked back almost in synchronicity with the child’s reaction, she knew that face, her breath caught in her throat……………
The little girl jumped up, brushing the loose sand from her skirt she started forward towards her, hopping over the edge of the sandpit and breaking into a run…..running now, running at her……………………………
Through her and………………………..gone.
The lights flickered again, the room appeared to swirl around her, she felt as if she was being pushed back, back out of the room and into the corridor…..she cried out “Nooooo” her voice sounded anguished. She staggered and tried to catch her balance, she was falling……………..
She opened her eyes. She was in the corridor, still outside room 52 but the door was shut tight now…there was no handle…she looked left and right, none of the doors had handles. Nothing had changed. The noises were still there but they had lessened almost as if they were now on the edge of her hearing. Why had she seen that? In 1952 she was three years old with little understanding of life and the world she inhabited. All she knew was that it was the year her Father had left them, the last time she’d seen him, called in from the garden to watch him walk down the front path carrying a suitcase….he never came back.
She lent back against the wall and slowly slid down it to sit on the floor, drawing in her knees as close as she could toward her body and wrapping her arms around them. Her head drooped forward onto her knees, her breath shuddered and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d not thought of that day for years but now the memories came flooding back. Banished to the garden whilst her parents fought, she’d spent many hours out there in the sandpit, cold and alone, trying to build a castle with her scanty supply of sand. Her Mother would eventually call her in for tea, red eyed and flustered, her Father absent, there was always an echo of slammed doors and often she had seen newspaper wrapped broken china in the kitchen bin when she had thrown away the remains of her tea.
Why had she seen, or maybe remembered, this now? Her mind was obviously playing tricks on her. She must be having some kind of a nervous breakdown, that could be the only explanation for what was happening to her. She was hallucinating. Someone must have put her here, and here was probably a mental hospital and she was lost in the building. They’d find her soon. Someone must come and help her soon.
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Books - 95-99
What Matters in Jane Austen by John Mullan
Format - Kindle
My SIL recommended this book to me as she knows how much I love Austen, I was not disappointed. The book is a collection of essays which brings facets of Austen's stories to life which you may not have noticed before, some are interesting and some will change the way you read the text. It has inspired to reread them again soon. If you love Austen this will give some of the story lines and characters a new slant. It is well worth reading.
The Return of Sherlock Homes and The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Formats - Audio Book and Paperback.
Continuing with my rereading of Holmes in order - managed to finish these two last week. They never get old. Brilliant.
As The Last Petal Falls by Jessica Woodward
Format - Kindle.
Light and frothy retelling of Beauty and the Beast with a new twist and perspective. I enjoyed it but it wasn't a challenging read and I'm not in a hurry to read others in this series but it did make a nice bit of light relief.
The Devil's Grin (Kronberg Crimes) by Annelie Wendeberg
Format -Kindle.
This I loved. Clever, different, twisty and with the added bonus of Holmes. What more could I ask for? Looking forward to the next one.
Five books to go until I double the 52!
Format - Kindle
My SIL recommended this book to me as she knows how much I love Austen, I was not disappointed. The book is a collection of essays which brings facets of Austen's stories to life which you may not have noticed before, some are interesting and some will change the way you read the text. It has inspired to reread them again soon. If you love Austen this will give some of the story lines and characters a new slant. It is well worth reading.
The Return of Sherlock Homes and The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Formats - Audio Book and Paperback.
Continuing with my rereading of Holmes in order - managed to finish these two last week. They never get old. Brilliant.
As The Last Petal Falls by Jessica Woodward
Format - Kindle.
Light and frothy retelling of Beauty and the Beast with a new twist and perspective. I enjoyed it but it wasn't a challenging read and I'm not in a hurry to read others in this series but it did make a nice bit of light relief.
The Devil's Grin (Kronberg Crimes) by Annelie Wendeberg
Format -Kindle.
This I loved. Clever, different, twisty and with the added bonus of Holmes. What more could I ask for? Looking forward to the next one.
Five books to go until I double the 52!
The Corridor - part 1 - A Halloween Story,
There really was no reason at all to feel afraid but that didn’t stop the chills shivering up her spine. Her neck felt cold and clammy and her palms were sweaty, and no matter how much she rationalised her surroundings in her head these feelings would not leave her.
Taking a couple of deep calming breaths and repeating the mantra “there is nothing to fear but fear itself”, she straightened her spine as much as she was able and opened the door. It should have creaked eerily, but it didn’t, it opened smoothly as if the hinges had been recently oiled. The thick carpet in the corridor muffled any noise from her shoes as she took a step forward. The length of the hallway seemed endless, she knew in reality that it wasn’t, but her mind was playing tricks on her and making suggestions that were pretty ridiculous. She’s never been bothered by these kind of feelings and thoughts on Halloween before, she really must pull herself together.
As she walked along the corridor she noticed that all the doors that opened onto it were numbered but they were not sequential, in fact they did not appear to form any kind of pattern at all, not prime or odd or anything she could think of, just random. The number that caught her attention was 78, that was a good number. She’d met James in 1978 and they had spent a wonderful year in love and a good part of it in bed, her one and only affair. She moved slowly on looking at each door…..three along from 78 was 64, the year she left school, left home, left the old life behind. The lights suddenly flickered and went off, she was in total darkness. Did she really breath that loudly?
She put her hands out in front of her and turned slightly so she could feel the wall and the doors as she slowly moved onwards along the hall. She thought she could hear a distant noise, like a…..like a drumbeat….perhaps someone was starting their Halloween celebrations….a party maybe? Well she was too old for parties now and once she found the exit she could head for home. Wait a minute. Home? Where was home? In fact why wasn’t she at home now? She didn’t remember going out and she wasn’t wearing a coat - what on earth was she doing here and how did she get here? Even worse - where was here?
She started to tremble and breath harder.
What was that? A noise. She held her breath and tried to still herself and stretch her ears to identify the sound. A pattering like rain maybe…was she close to the roof? There were no windows as there was no source of natural light. The lights flickered on and off, then on again briefly….the doors where still there but they had changed colour, she was sure they had all been white but now they were red and instead of numbers there were words printed on them……’Sorrow, Joy, Lust, Wishes’ what was going on? She pinched herself on her forearm as hard as she could and shut her eyes tight for a few seconds. When she opened them again, she was still in the corridor but the doors were back to being white and numbered. The pattering noise seemed louder and closer and so did the musical drum beat but she hadn’t moved for minutes and she couldn’t see anything other than the corridor and the doors…….
She rubbed her face in a tired and resigned way. There was only one thing to do, carry on along the corridor. The next door along was numbered 52 and it was just slightly ajar. Swallowing convulsively, as if it would give her courage, she pushed against the door lightly and called out “Hello”. The door swung open, bright light flashed, she felt sick and dizzy and as if she had been on a merry-go-round - her head was spinning. Her vision cleared, she had somehow moved into the room and the doorway was now just behind her. She gasped, the whole room was like being in a cinema. A scene opened up before her………..
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Taking a couple of deep calming breaths and repeating the mantra “there is nothing to fear but fear itself”, she straightened her spine as much as she was able and opened the door. It should have creaked eerily, but it didn’t, it opened smoothly as if the hinges had been recently oiled. The thick carpet in the corridor muffled any noise from her shoes as she took a step forward. The length of the hallway seemed endless, she knew in reality that it wasn’t, but her mind was playing tricks on her and making suggestions that were pretty ridiculous. She’s never been bothered by these kind of feelings and thoughts on Halloween before, she really must pull herself together.
As she walked along the corridor she noticed that all the doors that opened onto it were numbered but they were not sequential, in fact they did not appear to form any kind of pattern at all, not prime or odd or anything she could think of, just random. The number that caught her attention was 78, that was a good number. She’d met James in 1978 and they had spent a wonderful year in love and a good part of it in bed, her one and only affair. She moved slowly on looking at each door…..three along from 78 was 64, the year she left school, left home, left the old life behind. The lights suddenly flickered and went off, she was in total darkness. Did she really breath that loudly?
She put her hands out in front of her and turned slightly so she could feel the wall and the doors as she slowly moved onwards along the hall. She thought she could hear a distant noise, like a…..like a drumbeat….perhaps someone was starting their Halloween celebrations….a party maybe? Well she was too old for parties now and once she found the exit she could head for home. Wait a minute. Home? Where was home? In fact why wasn’t she at home now? She didn’t remember going out and she wasn’t wearing a coat - what on earth was she doing here and how did she get here? Even worse - where was here?
She started to tremble and breath harder.
What was that? A noise. She held her breath and tried to still herself and stretch her ears to identify the sound. A pattering like rain maybe…was she close to the roof? There were no windows as there was no source of natural light. The lights flickered on and off, then on again briefly….the doors where still there but they had changed colour, she was sure they had all been white but now they were red and instead of numbers there were words printed on them……’Sorrow, Joy, Lust, Wishes’ what was going on? She pinched herself on her forearm as hard as she could and shut her eyes tight for a few seconds. When she opened them again, she was still in the corridor but the doors were back to being white and numbered. The pattering noise seemed louder and closer and so did the musical drum beat but she hadn’t moved for minutes and she couldn’t see anything other than the corridor and the doors…….
She rubbed her face in a tired and resigned way. There was only one thing to do, carry on along the corridor. The next door along was numbered 52 and it was just slightly ajar. Swallowing convulsively, as if it would give her courage, she pushed against the door lightly and called out “Hello”. The door swung open, bright light flashed, she felt sick and dizzy and as if she had been on a merry-go-round - her head was spinning. Her vision cleared, she had somehow moved into the room and the doorway was now just behind her. She gasped, the whole room was like being in a cinema. A scene opened up before her………..
(Copyright P Lainchbury 2012)
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Small crochet hexagon throw
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Bits-n-bobs.
This week has been funny, busy and kind of weird - M had a couple of days off which was nice and we had a bit of a social down in Hastings with some dog owning buddies - good conversation and good cakes! Been out walking quite a bit when the weather has permitted, got some reading done but apart from that life is puttering along quite nicely thank you.
Have a good weekend.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The redemption of the cardigan of Doom!
For 13 months I have been, sporadically, knitting on a cardigan that I have had serious doubts about. These doubts have been intensified by the experience of a knitting friend and by my own eyes.
When we were in Bath last September I purchased enough yarn to make this garment, when we got home I knitted the tension swatch, got gauge....this is important...my gauge was totally spot on. I looked at the schematic for my size and decided to knit two sizes bigger as I wanted a loose fit and I had the yarn to do it. I cast on. I know garment knitting with me is always a long haul, my early enthusiasm wanes very quickly as the rows get longer and the work gets heavier and bulkier, and this one also had the downside of moss stitch which I love the look of but hate knitting.
I worked on this fairly regularly, it was a slog as it is bottom up and knit in one piece (back and fronts all at once) but I slowly inched my way up the rib, the boring stocking stitch to the moss stitch and the cables. I divided it at the armholes and finished the back. I took it to my knitting group where one of my friends, who is a highly respected and experienced knitter, told she had had a bad experience with this pattern coming out very small! I worried. I laid it out on another cardi knitted from the same designer, in a size smaller, I worried a bit more. I put it down and walked away.
Every now and then I'd pick it up, knit a bit, look at it and sigh and debate froggin it...but it was such a lot of work. So I carried onward and upward. Then it got abandoned completely with a back, 2 fronts and a sleeve....I knew it was too small.
A couple of weeks back, I hauled it out of the norty corner...tried it on, sighed, debated and thought 'Fuck it, I'll finish it and see.' So I started sleeve two. I also was niggling now at the colour, it's a mauve/rose with grey/green flecks. I had wanted to make it in green or grey but the shop didn't have the yardage in stock in many colours and out of the ones they had Mike reckoned this colour was more 'me'. But colour preferences change or mine do...and now I was regretting my choice.
I slogged on. I moaned - to friends and family in real life and online. I finished the sleeve and the edging bands. I got my Mum to try it on....it fitted her! She is a size 12 up top at most I am an ample 16 and I was making a 48 which should be looooooooooooooose on me. I had forgone buttons (I never button up a cardi) and altered it a little to make it edge to edge but it was too small. Mum joked it could be her Xmas present,which was an option, but I would have been grumpy if she'd ever worn it, cos I had worked so hard and it had fucked up plus she can't wear wool (it makes her itch) and this was knit in pure wool which also made it a fairly pricey fuck up too.
Finally I knit the collar. That was it all the knitting finished. I was seriously downcast. I rarely make garments as, for me, they are such a commitment. I decided to wash and block it.
A wash , two rinses and a roll in a towel later and I was ready to lay it out.....it had grown. I was pessimistic it would shrink as it dried and it still wasn't ever going to be a loose fitting 48...but it did look bigger. It has taken two and half days to dry. This morning I tried it on. It is not the loose baggy cardi of my dreams but it does fit and fit nicely (I knit the sleeves long as I like them down my hands) even the sleeves are OK, actually they are too big really around the top but that is better than the original sausage like fit.
This stroke of wonder is not down to patterns author, it is down to the yarn (which is different to what the author used) but as I got gauge...perfect, spot on gauge, the yarn sub should not make a difference. I dread to ponder whether this miracle would have occurred if the proper yarn was used and I wonder if anyone else (other than my friend) has suffered the disappointment of so much effort and a badly fitting result. Of the other garments I have made where the patterns are by this author I have had no issues with sizing. Just this one - I looked at the picture of the uber skinny models in their baggy loose fit Flyingdale Cardigans and realised that to get that fit.....I better diet for the next two years!
P.S. Still not sure I like the colour though!
When we were in Bath last September I purchased enough yarn to make this garment, when we got home I knitted the tension swatch, got gauge....this is important...my gauge was totally spot on. I looked at the schematic for my size and decided to knit two sizes bigger as I wanted a loose fit and I had the yarn to do it. I cast on. I know garment knitting with me is always a long haul, my early enthusiasm wanes very quickly as the rows get longer and the work gets heavier and bulkier, and this one also had the downside of moss stitch which I love the look of but hate knitting.
I worked on this fairly regularly, it was a slog as it is bottom up and knit in one piece (back and fronts all at once) but I slowly inched my way up the rib, the boring stocking stitch to the moss stitch and the cables. I divided it at the armholes and finished the back. I took it to my knitting group where one of my friends, who is a highly respected and experienced knitter, told she had had a bad experience with this pattern coming out very small! I worried. I laid it out on another cardi knitted from the same designer, in a size smaller, I worried a bit more. I put it down and walked away.
Every now and then I'd pick it up, knit a bit, look at it and sigh and debate froggin it...but it was such a lot of work. So I carried onward and upward. Then it got abandoned completely with a back, 2 fronts and a sleeve....I knew it was too small.
A couple of weeks back, I hauled it out of the norty corner...tried it on, sighed, debated and thought 'Fuck it, I'll finish it and see.' So I started sleeve two. I also was niggling now at the colour, it's a mauve/rose with grey/green flecks. I had wanted to make it in green or grey but the shop didn't have the yardage in stock in many colours and out of the ones they had Mike reckoned this colour was more 'me'. But colour preferences change or mine do...and now I was regretting my choice.
I slogged on. I moaned - to friends and family in real life and online. I finished the sleeve and the edging bands. I got my Mum to try it on....it fitted her! She is a size 12 up top at most I am an ample 16 and I was making a 48 which should be looooooooooooooose on me. I had forgone buttons (I never button up a cardi) and altered it a little to make it edge to edge but it was too small. Mum joked it could be her Xmas present,which was an option, but I would have been grumpy if she'd ever worn it, cos I had worked so hard and it had fucked up plus she can't wear wool (it makes her itch) and this was knit in pure wool which also made it a fairly pricey fuck up too.
Finally I knit the collar. That was it all the knitting finished. I was seriously downcast. I rarely make garments as, for me, they are such a commitment. I decided to wash and block it.
A wash , two rinses and a roll in a towel later and I was ready to lay it out.....it had grown. I was pessimistic it would shrink as it dried and it still wasn't ever going to be a loose fitting 48...but it did look bigger. It has taken two and half days to dry. This morning I tried it on. It is not the loose baggy cardi of my dreams but it does fit and fit nicely (I knit the sleeves long as I like them down my hands) even the sleeves are OK, actually they are too big really around the top but that is better than the original sausage like fit.
This stroke of wonder is not down to patterns author, it is down to the yarn (which is different to what the author used) but as I got gauge...perfect, spot on gauge, the yarn sub should not make a difference. I dread to ponder whether this miracle would have occurred if the proper yarn was used and I wonder if anyone else (other than my friend) has suffered the disappointment of so much effort and a badly fitting result. Of the other garments I have made where the patterns are by this author I have had no issues with sizing. Just this one - I looked at the picture of the uber skinny models in their baggy loose fit Flyingdale Cardigans and realised that to get that fit.....I better diet for the next two years!
P.S. Still not sure I like the colour though!
Thursday, October 04, 2012
Books 90-94
'Memoirs of Sherlock Homles' and 'Hound of the Baskervilles' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Format - Audio Book and Book
Two of my favourites - 'Memoirs' is a collection of short stories which I love and have read so many times it was quite nice to listen to them for a change. And as for 'Hound of the Baskervilles' it is a long time favourite, even more so having stayed right below Hound Tor on Dartmoor where legend has it the idea of the hound came from. I love Dartmoor and the first time I read this book was when we were staying there so I recalled many good holiday memories as I re-read this book.
The next three books are in one vol but are classed as three separate novels. They are;
'Village School','Village Diary' and 'Storm in the Village' by Miss Read (Chronicles of Fairacre)
Format - Book
I discovered Miss Read's books when J was a toddler and I wanted something light but safe. I had heard of the author but not read any of her works so took the plunge and this edition of three novels was the first book of hers I bought. I loved them. I then purchased loads of the 'Thrush Green' series (which if I'm honest I prefer) but I decided it was time to revisit these for bedtime light reading. They still delight me with their charm and ease of reading. I re-read the 'Thrush Green' books many, many times but this is the first time (I think) that I have reread these - they did not disappoint.
Ten books to go until I have read double the 52 in the year - I have until midnight on 31st December.....wonder if I can do it?
Format - Audio Book and Book
Two of my favourites - 'Memoirs' is a collection of short stories which I love and have read so many times it was quite nice to listen to them for a change. And as for 'Hound of the Baskervilles' it is a long time favourite, even more so having stayed right below Hound Tor on Dartmoor where legend has it the idea of the hound came from. I love Dartmoor and the first time I read this book was when we were staying there so I recalled many good holiday memories as I re-read this book.
The next three books are in one vol but are classed as three separate novels. They are;
'Village School','Village Diary' and 'Storm in the Village' by Miss Read (Chronicles of Fairacre)
Format - Book
I discovered Miss Read's books when J was a toddler and I wanted something light but safe. I had heard of the author but not read any of her works so took the plunge and this edition of three novels was the first book of hers I bought. I loved them. I then purchased loads of the 'Thrush Green' series (which if I'm honest I prefer) but I decided it was time to revisit these for bedtime light reading. They still delight me with their charm and ease of reading. I re-read the 'Thrush Green' books many, many times but this is the first time (I think) that I have reread these - they did not disappoint.
Ten books to go until I have read double the 52 in the year - I have until midnight on 31st December.....wonder if I can do it?
National Poetry Day - theme Stars.
Winter Stars
By Sara Teasdale 1884–1933 Sara Teasdale
I went out at night alone;
The young blood flowing beyond the sea
Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—
I bore my sorrow heavily.
But when I lifted up my head
From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
Burn steadily as long ago.
From windows in my father’s house,
Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
I watched Orion as a girl
Above another city’s lights.
Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,
All things are changed, save in the east
The faithful beauty of the stars.
By Sara Teasdale 1884–1933 Sara Teasdale
I went out at night alone;
The young blood flowing beyond the sea
Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—
I bore my sorrow heavily.
But when I lifted up my head
From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
Burn steadily as long ago.
From windows in my father’s house,
Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
I watched Orion as a girl
Above another city’s lights.
Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars,
All things are changed, save in the east
The faithful beauty of the stars.
Monday, October 01, 2012
This weekend....
I managed to complete three hats in my week of hat knitting - quite pleased with that.
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