Black Lives Matter 2016.


Image By James Eades on

Black Lives Matter……2016.


Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Are you feeling distressed, maybe not right in the head, as you look at the world we now live in
A nightmare scene, that Hollywood scriptwriters could never have imagined
Even in their wildest dreams
Are you so bored out of your mind, or perhaps been more productive
How grateful are you to those medical staff, risking it all, does it make you feel small
How did all this come about. Who can we blame
Are you catching up on those books, you always said you’d read
Is your house now so clean, its any housewifes dream

How about those people, your stuck with inside
Who at the best of times, can get inside your mind, and drive you insane
Do you hate, Do you dream of the day, you’ll be far the hell away from them
Perhaps you are learning patience, tolerance, letting things go
But also at the same time, also dreaming of revenge
What kind of man are you
Brexit, Syria, foreign wars fade from view, as they leave the world stage
The world comes together to combat this outrage
Empty streets, quiet days, and silent nights
Millions sit at home and wait, for our governments to open up the gates again
We stare out from our windows, disbelieving, and aching for all this to come right
The whole world brought to a standstill, by an unseen enemy, that can make us all so ill

Have you now found Jesus, or some other such saviour
Are you on your bended knees, promising to lead a life so pure and clean
He’d have no option, but to allow through those pearly gates
If that’s where your heading to
Will you be different, when all this is over
Kinder, perhaps. More generous in your view, and a lot more grateful too
Determined to do those things, you were forever promising yourself to do
Will those wasteful relationships, just have to go
Do you feel trapped, and just don’t know what to do
Do you wonder will the end of this carry on, ever come true
Are you alone, Are you afraid, for yourself, and others
Will the media be brought to book, daily force feeding us statistics, we’d rather ignore
Do I really need to know, another poor soul, has succumbed to this illness
Thousands of miles from where I am. Do I need to hear such stories again, and again
My heart jumps, my nerves on edge, stress levels, bursting right out of my head
Where is it safe to lay my head, tonite
Is that surface wiped down, or did I touch it again
Shall I run to the washroom, I need all this to end

Will all this put your life in perspective, about what matters most
Are you a millionaire, who will promise to care more, and donate to the science community, if only we can get through this
Hey those in government, health, education cutbacks in favour of a foolish arms race
Don’t seem such a clever move now, not that they ever were
Will you pay nurses fairly, or will it all be lost on you

Benefits of all this, crime rate is down, world wide. Global co-operation abounds
Stout people are getting slim. Pollution, global warming, all on hold
Time to spend with loved ones, and our children too
Malaria, Ebola, Sars virus, and many more, we’ve seen it all before
As a human race, whatever it is that we face, we endeavour, we endure
We settle the score, and we overcome, as one
The human race, resilient to the core
So you have faith now, one day very soon now, one of these scientific geniuses, will relieve us of our worldwide gloom


andrea photo

Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash

‘I think’, and he paused, cause this was difficult, and hard, ‘I think, he continued, that I may be a paedophile. ‘I have these very deep, dark and depraved thoughts, and feelings and I am afraid, afraid I may take action on them quiet soon’. With that he dropped his head, he couldn’t bear to look at her now. His physical body reflecting his inner shame and self hate. But their it was, he had said it now. It was out in the open, no way of taking it back.

She got up from her black leather chair, and moved closer to the window. Looking out from the first floor, she looked across to the green, where a few people were sitting and enjoying the warm sunshine, (she knew what he meant), It seems all so normal out there. ‘How do I deal with this’, she asked hersellf silently.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, while still looking down toward the ground. Reflected that the red carpet, like the rest of the decor in the room, seemed only to add to the darkness and despair, that were his constant companion these last few months. He so wished she would say something, anything to break the silence. Condemn him, praise him, comfort him, understand him. But there was nothing, just silence.

The words she had just heard, began to awaken memories, in Andrea, of a time and place, many years ago now, that she had long since put under lock and key in the deep in the recesses of her mind, never to see daylight again. Yet her (Andera’s) mind could not but help (went) drifted back to when she too was a child. To those warm and sunny holidays. A welcome break from school. How she really loved animals, horses in particular. But yet she did not wish to sully, nor allow her love of animals to be degraded and ruined by recalling memories and events she had no control over, now or then.

But she did not want to revisit that time,that place in her mind, as there was little to be gained from it. She had to an extent made peace with her past, tried forgiveness, and understanding. But being human, like us all,it was not at times easy to drop all desires for (she too wanted) revenge. To inflict hurt and distress on those who had stolen her childhood. Mental health professionals had been of some help, as had in earlier years a heavy reliance on alcohol and illicit drugs.

    A desire to help others deal with there own eventful past had drawn her into the Mental Health arena she derived some satisfaction from her work.

‘Could you give me some more detail Stephen’, she asked softly and gently. Trying to get him, this man to open up, some more.
‘Don’t play games with me Doctor’, he looked at her, his eyes narrow and mean. His voice sharp, loud and unfriendly. He always called people like her Doctor, even though she wasn’t a medical Doctor. It kept a bit of a barrier, a boundary between them, and that’s the way he wanted it.
‘Read between the lines’ Doctor, you’ve being doing this job long enough’, you know what I’m talking about’.

She was quite new to counselling, and was getting used to dealing with troubled people, with their depressions, relationship troubles, with their loneliness and isolation. But this……….did she have the life experience to know what to say. To say the right words. What can you say to someone like this, a human being like this whom she despised, for what he may have in his past. But she knew a day such as this day would come. She just about managed to maintain her professionalism.

‘What makes you think you may act out your depraved thoughts,and feelings. Be a paedophile ?’ She finally asked. Even the word, caused her stomach to churn, as she said it, unsure if she was about to throw up. She stared at him intently. Trying to hide how she despised him, and his like. Attempting to be compassionate and understanding. But his lack of remorse. His semi cavalier attitude in her office, did little to endear him to her. 

Stephen didn’t like her at all, but she was the only psychotherapist available when he was referred. He so wished he had being referred to a male psychotherapist, at least then ,one man would be more likely to understand another man, to a much greater extent. Rather than a stupid bitch of a woman.

   But she would have to do, as he knew he had to open up to someone, as his mind was in constant turmoil. Sleepless nights, followed by restless days. His reasoning was, it just had to be helpful to bring his deep, dark thoughts into the light, and out of the darkness. Perhaps maybe there was a way, these powerful thoughts, feelings would go away, and bring him some peace. But did he truly want his lustful desires to go away.

‘Because,’ Stephen spoke, slowly at first. Wanting to share his hidden innermost thoughts, with somebody, with any body. Intense Lust and desire. The overwhelming feeling to be physically close to the child. To enjoy their innocence and open acceptance of another human being. To share a child’s laughter and joy. And what’s the most intimate way to form such a connection, a spiritual, physical, mental and emotional connection with another human being, that is so precious. No man could ever pull apart. A union enshrined in love, tenderness, gentleness and compassion. A union of two humans, encapsulated / enshrined by the most intimate of acts. How could anybody who never experienced these thoughts, and feelings ever understand them.

    ‘I have such strong feelings in that direction’. Unwilling to even say the words. ‘You know what I’m talking about’. He paused,trying to put his jumbled, confused thoughts into coherent sentences. ‘I enjoy the company of young children so much, I love their innocence, their joy, their happiness, their unconditional love’.

‘But that doesn’t make you a paedophile, maybe your just an adult who is perhaps intimidated by other adults. I myself enjoy the company of children, and you find children’s company easier’,

Stephen listened intently to what was being said,

‘Do you ever want to be intimate with any children ?’ she asked.

‘God no’, he lied. The very idea sickened him, and horrified him, he maintained.

‘I would never, ever harm them’.

‘Have you ever being intimate with a child ? ever,’ she asked.

‘No’, Stephen replied.

Andrea was proud of herself, how she handling such a difficult counselling session, in a semi professional and detached manner. Asking the difficult uncomfortable questions that needed to be answered.

         ‘You see Stephen, these thoughts and feelings you have’, these feelings you have, may lead you into trouble, and may cause you to bring hurt and harm to children. Is that what you want ?’

  ‘No, I know these ideas in my mind are not right’. But he did not truly believe that. If only other people could understand his perspective, and his life experiences.

’But I don’t know how to get rid of them, how to make them go away. That’s why I’m afraid.’

‘Do you have many adult friends/acquaintances’?

‘Not a single one. I don’t like people as they grow older, and become adults. Because then they become cruel, and not nice to others. That’s why I prefer children. I wish there were only sweet inconnect happy children in the world, and no adults.’

‘Would you be willing to come to counselling on a long term basis ?’, Andrea asked

He went quiet, as he thought about that, as he didn’t particularly wish to see her again, perhaps another man.

‘Maybe, Don’t know’, he responded, without looking at her.

The sun began to shine its rays and (heat) through the window, bringing with it warmth and light. Somehow, the sunshine, as Andrea reflected to herself, seemed to make the future look a somewhat more bright and hopeful, as it always does.


Andrea (Part 2). ?

Slowly he got dressed. Trying to delay the inevitable, like a child trying very much trying not to go to school.To leave the comfort and security of their home, and mainly of their mother. As he slowly made his way towards the train station, ignoring the warm sunshine. He thought about turning back and not going at all, for a brief moment, and just running away. But realising there was no real escape, as the consequences of not turning up, were none too pleasant to contemplate. He knew how he, an accused paedophile would be treated in prison, Wasn’t even sure if he would actually make it through a prison term safely.

Here he was accused, but not condemned man. But with such an accusation like that hanging over his head, he was as good as condemned in many people’s minds already. His life was as good as ruined anyway. Very few had stood by him. So called friends swifty drifted away. Work stopped calling. Even his family, his own flesh and blood, had not been in contact since the accusation was first made. So much for family loyalty.

       Andrea sat in her office awaiting the arrival of Stephen. She wasn’t even sure if he was going to turn up at all. She had not rehearsed how she was going to deal with this session, having  decided she was just going to let it play out as it would, whatever way that was.

 In any case her mind was more focused on her own life. Her own issues, her two young daughters, and her  mother’s deteriorating condition. Her Mother’s dementia getting worse by the day. Was now the time to take that step she so didn’t want to take, and put her beloved mother into a care home. This woman who only a few short years previously, was the life and soul of any gathering. Whose brain was shaped by years of fast quick thinking as her many years of working as a lawyer, dealing with others with equally sharp, quick minds.

        But now she too was like a child, unable to look after herself. Her memories and thoughts skipping all over the place, in an incoherent mess. As Andrea thought of this, her tears began to flow, and her chest began to heave and shake. With great power slammed her palm onto the desk in utter frustration and anger. The white mug of tea on the desk shook and emptied some of its contents. Andrea’s frustration and anger at life. At God. At the scientists who could find no cure. At the unfairness of it all. But Andrea was also angry and disappointed with herself. How in recent months she had become, quite short tempered and unpleasant at times to her mother. So frustrated she was by her mother’s condition, as her Mother was unable at times to remember her own name, where she was, or even Andreas name. Asking Andrea at times, who she was, and what did she want.

   Her mother, this woman, who all those years ago, in that very hot summer, sensed,as only a mother could, that something was bothering and deeply troubling her daughter. How she very gently, sensitively, and with great patience her mother probed Andrea, until her daughter related how ‘that man’. Not wanting to utter his name, nor hear it, as she referred to him, at the horse racing stables. She shared what had transpired that hot mid-july afternoon. It was a very painful experience to share with anyone, as Andrea felt so foolish. So unclean. So embarrassed and mainly so very ashamed. She recalled how on that day, and many days since her mother had embraced and held her, and assured her, sincerely that it was not her fault. That the man. The man with dark soul, tried to take away her innocence.

  This deepened the bonds of love between them. Andrea fondly recalled how as she journeyed into womanhood, and of that very cold Christmas spent with her mother. Where the thick snow, a rare occurrence, had made that holiday time seem so memorable, so special. As she recalled how after they shared one too many bottles of wine, and talked of life, the past,and the future, her mother had shared how she too had as a child, had being the object of her own father’s un-welcome attentions, Andrea grandfather. Long since passed away, a secret that she had never shared with anyone, over all these years.

Because of their similar shared sordid experiences, at the hands of men, they became very close, not only as mother and daughter, but as women. As human beings, and many times they had shared tears, and held each other softly, and grew as close as its possible to be. One human being to another, a love so very deep. As deep as the ocean, and deeper still. As deep as the earth itself, and bonds so strong, that would never, ever be broken.

Walking up the stairs, of this grey dilapidated building, he was trying to figure out a way, to regain some power. Some personal power in this situation where he had opened himself up shared his deep vulnerability. Opened his heart and soul. Feeling raw like an open sore he approached the door. he questioned his decision to wear a trench coat today, of all days. Doubtful now that it would rain. He just walked right in. Did not bother to knock. His way of saying,’I don’t respect nor like you, or think much of you’, He slammed the door behind him, as he knew from experience loud noises frightened people. That was his intention here, as he pulled the empty brown leather chair away from the desk, in an aggressive manner. Away from her, this woman, this person, without saying anything, and faced the chair toward the window.

Andrea had being forewarned during her training, that this kind of behaviour may be possible for her clients, as they tried to re-assert some authority. Especially after they had shared deeply, and were feeling vulnerable and raw, with her.

She said nothing as he sat down, on the chair across from the desk. She could see as she glanced at him, that his once white trench coat, was now a rather shabby looking cream colour. The undone tie, unshaven face, and somewhat crumpled suit, were signs of a man trying to hold onto some form of respectability, but not winning. She guessed looking at him, he had not sleep well, if at all since their last meeting. Surmised that most probably he was unable to sleep, as his jumbled thoughts, no doubt interfering with his peace of mind. She briefly imagined how smart and successful he must have looked, all those months ago, before all these accusations began. How well thought of he was in his company, as he moved swiftly up the career ladder. How well he would have looked, dressed in his smart suit. How he must have looked younger than his 48 years on this planet. But now his face was drawn, and worn out looking. Grey and drained. 

                She could sense from his energy, his volcanic smouldering violence. Was it about to explode, here in this room at any moment. She wrapped her fingers of her left hand around the hot mug of tea, that still sat on her desk. Ready and quiet willing to throw the hot liquid into his eyes and face, were he to dare to make a move toward her, with bad intent. Her own anger was to the fore, with her thoughts of her beloved mother, and her increasing dementia. Her other hand, slipped under the desk. Hovering under the panic switch, would were she to press it, bring the two rather large security personnel, up from reception, in a hurry.

Stephen for his part, began to examine his brown leather shoes, as he sat across from the desk. Planning to polish them, when he got out of home. He looked out the window, into the bright sunshine, watching the birds fly so freely. Wondered what it was like to be truly free.  He questioned would he himself ever be truly free from these wretched, wicked thoughts.   He longed to be close to another human. Ached for that intimacy. A coming together of mind, body, spirit and soul. To feel truly connected to another. To feel love for them, and feel loved in return. Something he had never experienced, but believed did exist in this world. He wanted to experience it, and was determined to experience it, at least one time, before his life in this world was over. It was either going to be given to him freely, or he was going take it by force. .

As the Andrea began to feel the tension slowly subside in the office, she released her grip on the mug of hot liquid, her possible weapon. Took her hand away from the panic switch, as she too began to look out the window, into the bright sunshine. She wondered about this man across from her. What kind of life he had. What had happened in his life, to make him have thoughts and feelings of being intimate with children Was that so very wrong, she asked herself. Is love, not love, however it surfaces. She now began to question her own thoughts. She considered had he too being interfered with, when he to was an innocent child. Her thoughts and feelings, drifted away from fear, anger and dislike, to the beginnings of compassion, empathy and understanding.

Andrea got up from the black leather chair, and walked toward the window. She found it much easier to think, when she was moving. He watched her as she moved. Her slim body, with that stylish auburn hairstyle. Her white blouse and close fitting black trousers, illuminating her body. Her movements displayed her education, her experiences, her character. She reminded him of the women who had met in his office, but for whatever reason, had never shown any romantic interest in him at all. Quite the opposite, as they went out of their way to avoid him altogether. He overheard some refer to him as creepy, and weird. Would he even be in his current predicament, if he had meet a loving partner all those years ago. 

As he sat in the office across from her, musing in his mind how he’d rather be anywhere else but here, with this person. He really didn’t like her at all. Another stupid stuck up bitch. A little bit of education and a certificate that gives her the right to interfere in a persons life and say what’s right and wrong. It was either come here,or go to prison, that was the choice he was offered in court. Not much of a choice really.

But at the same time, could she possibly be able to help him rid his mind of these thoughts of children. His warped thoughts. The contents of his own mind that frightened him. She was a psychotherapist after all, but he didn’t want to do all the giving. Feeling so empty and drained after the first session he had with her, he wasn’t even sure if speaking so honestly in that first session did any good at all. It left him feeling that his soul and heart were wide weeping sores. Added to which he was feeling extremely vulnerable,and insecure.

In his own mind mind he dreamed up a plan. If he could get something on her, that would even up the odds a bit. She seen the inside of his soul, and now he wanted to see the inside of hers.

Andrea was not looking at Stephen, as she sat back in the leather chair, behind the desk. She liked to sit behind the desk, as it keep a certain distance, both physical and psychological between her and the clients. Even though her University professors had encouraged all there psychotherapy students to adopt a much more informal approach, while interacting with their clients, and to do away with the desk altogether. She didn’t agree, and never implemented that policy.


To Be continued……


Are You Fed Up Too ?


Are you fed up too, wishing to Christ this life would end,
You know, like you do
Are you also dreading waking up tomorrow
For yet another day filled with nothing but sorrow
Are you too envious of those who are terminally ill
Debt, loneliness, and despair, no end in sight
Have you too given up on Jesus ever putting it right
Are you turning to witchcraft and God knows what as a way out
Do you feel guilty for not being grateful for the health that you have
Feeling such sorrow for yourself, self pity to the max
But sometimes when life is shit, it’s just yoself who you think of, and nothing else
Will writing a poem about it, cure it, and make it not so bad
I doubt it, cause its so entrenched in my mind
Is everybody on WordPress messed and traumatized  beyond belief
Cause I would not be surprised if these words get a a lot of likes
Some comfort in that, I suppose, others feeling the same way
But I still gotta face tomorrow, put on my game face
When all I want to do, is have an end to this life
Here’s hoping I don’t wake up tomorrow.


Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

‘Don’t look at that’, she screamed. ‘Material such as that is wrong, its sinful. It’s the work of the Devil. Keep looking at stuff like that, and you’ll end up in hell’.

With that onslaught I felt ashamed and embarrassed. My face redened. She left my room from where she had entered unannounced and unwelcome, and slammed the door. I knew she would not speak to myself for days. Her way of punishing her children when we got out of line, in her view. My body jumped as she slammed the door, and stomped down stairs, and again slammed the kitchen door.

To say she was angry was an understatement. But then she always seemed to be angry these days. I wonder was it because of her failing marriage. The public knowledge of her husband’s infidelity, and how she had that thrown back at her, daily in small town Ireland, by ‘helpful’ interfering neighbors and busy bodies. Minding  everyone’s business but their own.

But I was a young boy, exploring my sexuality. My body fully turbo charged up with male hormones and testosterone running through my body at speed. Desire and lust coursing through every fiber of my being, very hard to control at times.

Not helped, of course, by tales of sexual assignations successfully concluded by my school friends. Which they, with great joy loved to share with their friends, including those of us who were struggling to find a partner. Then to add to that we had everyone from the priest in the pulpit, to the nuns, to the government telling us, as a nation, as a generation of children that sex was wrong, nudity was abborant. The human body was to be hidden away. Biological desires were disgusting and evil, the work of the devil, no less. Were we to indulge in such matters, it was a royal road to hell we would be set upon, and for that there was no denying.

Of course looking back now, at the clerical sexual abuse and cruelty, has come to light, it does make one look hard and fast at such situations. Dismissive and questioning of the religious do gooders. Some I’m sure mean well, and do good. But many are dysfunctional, psychotic individuals, who belong if not in long-term prison, well then in long term psychological counselling.

It does not work denying a humans perfectly natural, and God given desires. Sexual desire is as natural as the feeling of thirst, hunger and fear. It’s when it’s censored and clamped down on. Pushed under the surface, that these desires morph into the more bizarre and extreme side of sexuality, which can lead to other issues. None of them good.

I was afraid. I felt bad. Like I had done something wrong. When all I had being doing was many young boys had done for years. Looking at and enjoying the female form in various states of undress. But now because it was wrong, according to those in the know. Because it was bad, and it was banned. I wanted to see it all. Especially the more extreme. It became my mission to travel, and view as much of it as possible. The more extreme and bizarre, the better. This of course before the internet and the freedom that affords young people today. So I did travel, and I saw what I needed and wanted to see, and that was ok.

Now if I want to see such films and images, it’s all here in my home at the flick of a switch. Just open up the laptop, and there it all is. Because it’s all there now, whenever, and if ever I want it. I can take it or leave it. Mostly I leave it. But its nice to know its available at any time, to view in private, anonymously, should I wish to.

Censorship, no not a big fan.

Written in response to a writing prompt. Censorship.

When Some One Dies


Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash

When someone dies, I ask what the hell is life all about
I’m soo sad. I weep. Where the hell is this peace I seek
This pain is to much to bear. It sears my soul
I am hurting, distraught and bereft

Such a good friend of mine is taken from this life, at this time
Where is the justification. Where is the reason why
Where are you now God. Explain to me the reason why
Why now, why her. Why at this time

Come on, fess up. Explain to me the reason why
It makes no sense. I am distraught. I cry
I am a man, but yet I weep
Her Love, Her energy, Her Happiness
You take that, and don’t explain why

Do I hate you God, if you exist at all
This life I don’t understand at all
I curse you life, I curse you God
I really do.

London, England.

London tube train station.
Photo by Adrien Ledoux on Unsplash

The ‘interview’ began gently, almost imperceptible. An ever so gentle probing of one’s character. An opportunity to judge their sense of self-esteem, and their willingness to stand up for them selves and fight back.

He held out the cigarette, and asked in a friendly manner.

‘Have you got a light ?’

All so very innocent, yet deceptive. The rattle of the tube trains loud as they whisked their passengers into the center of London, and outwards towards the safety and quietness of the suburbs. He offered him the lit cigarette he held by his side.  Certainly not the reaction this human predator was expecting. No one hand diverted into a trouser or jacket pocket, affording the would be thief, come mugger an opportunity to  be victorious as he unleashed a ferocious, and unexpected assault a now one-handed adversary.
Something was certainly ‘off’ about the man asking for a light to his cigarette. Just something didn’t seem right, did not ‘feel right’. He moved away down the platform with some non believable excuse.

It was hard not to paint every young black person as a ‘near do well’. To see them as human, some struggling, some quiet religious. Yet so many caught up in the prison system. The local newspapers only to happy to report yet another ‘person of African decent’, a coloured person to you and me, involved in crime in one form or another. The reasons for their choice of ‘career’ many and varied, and depending on one’s view, you could either feel somewhat sorry for their upbringing. Some brought up in poverty and squalor, ill educated, non interested parents, schoolteachers, no mentors and all the rest. Some turned to crime, while others choose not to. Whether that was just good fortune, who is to know.
Were you one of these Guardian Newspaper readers. Those do gooders, who may over their Chianti and cheese at the various parties they attended in the best houses of Hampstead and Chelsea, would have decried the unfairness of it all, as they snacked on yet more canapes and scallops. Exclaiming that really someone must do something about the situation. Perhaps, they allowed, that next time round they may, actually, heaven forbid, vote for a labour government to run the country. The laughter around the oak dinner tables of such fine homes reverberated long and loud into the evening.

The phone call was brief and do the point.

He excused himself from the table, and the animated, and at times laughter filled conversations, at the select Chelsea townhouse, that had become near enough his second home. Among people he trusted, and felt at ease with. People, who if given an opportunity would certainly put the world to right. Or so they believed. Sort out all these tiresome issues, that forever filled the newspapers and daily radio news reports.

Slowly he walked upstairs to find a quiet room together his thoughts. He needed to be alone. He stood in the darkness by the open french windows that looked out onto the quiet street. He glanced at the quarter full moon, in the late evening sky, and considered where his adopted child might now be. He noted the expensive vehicles on the clean, tree lined street, outside the expensive houses, and considered had it being a wise move to allow his adopted son the freedom to live as he pleased. What did that child really know of England, and the ways of the west. Brought from the ragged and poverty stricken streets of Kampala, Africa, to the unforgiving streets of London. Innocent and pure. Raised with Gods love by his Mother. Expecting so much from his new homeland.

People know people. After quiet some time contemplating alone, remembering. He made a phone call to the Embassy. He spoke to the military attaché, and old friend from a time long ago, when he was a different type of man. He briefly explained the situation, and accepted the condolences of the Military attaché. But revenge and retribution of the most savage and violent type was what he wanted, and asked the Military attaché to use his high level connections to ensure, discreetly, that the perpetrator’s of the crime were brought to justice, the South African Way. Quietly, and out of sight of police and interfering politicians.

He poured himself a straight whiskey from the decanter that adorned the mahogany bedside table. Enjoying and hoping the strong bitter taste of the liquid would fortify him over the next few moments. In the darkened room, he drank from the crystal glass, and dialed the number.

With hesitation, and pause for thought he slowly dialed the number.

His words were soft, and comforting.

‘Margaret, are you sitting down………..’

In the diplomatic area of Kampala, one of the few remaining well to do area’s of the city. Inside the gated community, behind the armed guards. She sat in the quietness of the evening on her veranda overlooking the vast expanse of bush that stretched out before her. The sounds of the many wild animals, unseen but heard, making their presence felt.
She recalled memories of her only son, and the many happy times they had spent together. How he had spoken of his plans and dreams to travel. The medical career he had planned, and his determination to use those skills for the poorer people in the townships, who were left to fend for themselves, by the many.
She had listened to and encouraged his honorable aspirations, and wondered how London was turning out for him, and had he perhaps met a nice woman.

The jangling of the phone ringing in the lounge disrupted her thoughts.

Her screams echoed throughout the large house, like a wounded animal caught in the most brutal of traps. The servants altered by her screams ran quickly to her rooms. The large breasted African housekeeper, whom she treated as a surrogate Mother, moved quickly to her side, as she knelt on the floor, weeping, sobbing and shaking. Held her gently in her arms. Comforted and soothed her as best she could, under the circumstances.
A human in pain is hard to witness at any time. But the searing pain a Mother feels for a child, unfairly taken from this life, is something else. Those screams of distress can cut through the hardest of hearts, and last a lifetime in one’s memory.

In the weeks that followed it did not take long for that call to come through. The efficiency of the South African security forces had always been top class, just as he remembered them.

‘ That delivery you requested has arrived, and is ready for collection at the embassy ‘.

The phone call brief, and to the point.

‘I’ll come and see to it this afternoon’. His response just as brief, and businesslike.

He sat back in the leather armchair, behind the dark mahogany desk, which he never liked. Among the shelves lined with books. Many of which he knew he would never manage to read, let alone, understand. Still, he assured himself, it would impress some of his clients.

He was unsure how he would deal with the package. He was still grieving. A very restrained, private type of grief. Not noticeable to others. In his former life he had seen the most brutal forms of death and destruction, and could not, would not allow emotions such as pity, sorrow, regret to intrude and detract from the job at hand. He did not allow himself to indulge in analytical, searching questioning of the methods and motivations he used, and the reasons for such.

But this was different. This was family. His family, albeit an adopted family / child. The distress of his wife was very real. That child, her child was cruelly and unfairly taken from her. He knew she stood once again on the precipice, and would not be surprised if this event would see her slide back once again into the bottomless, empty abyss of her addiction. Sobriety or relapse, only time would tell. Whether God, or her cohorts, or her own strength would save her, it was hard to say.

It was not too long since their attempt at procreation had led to that still-born child, whom she still grieved for. He on the other hand, had brushed it off, as a fact of life. The way men of a certain caliber are able to do. Their childless, cold marriage they were expected to endure, rescued in part by the adoption of the young boy. Now a young man, making his way in the world.

But focusing his mind on the issue at hand. A crime. An unfair, unjustified had been committed and had to be punished. Revenge, retribution was only right, and fair, and to be expected. It was what he expected, no, demanded of himself. He could not….

The ringing of the desk phone, disrupted his thoughts.

‘Will you need your car and driver this afternoon’.

‘No, that’s fine. Give him the afternoon off’.

The drive from his office, close to Parliament Sq to the South African Embassy, took him through the better parts of London. Gave him some time to turn his mind from his problems. As he drove, he reflected on how much London had changed in recent years.
The massive influx of the Eastern Europeans had to be seen to be believed. They brought with them an air of hardworking, industrious efficiency. Serious and dour, seldom seen smiling. There energy had changed London, and not for the better. The physical attractiveness of the Eastern European women, was some, little compensation for there cold and austere demeanor.

In the quiet road away from the thronged busy, wealthy high street, the cameras watched silently, as his car approached the embassy gates. The gates opened to allow his vehicle access. There was the perfucntionary security check just inside the gate. Although polite, and dressed like well to business executives, the security guards exuded a undeniable aura of seething violence, cruelty and brutality, just beneath their thin veneer of civility.

‘Welcome Back, Sir’, one of the guards offered. He pointed Edward in the direction of the building at the rear of the embassy, and managed to smile in anticipation of, perhaps some secret knowledge of what lay within.






Empty Life

daniel-jensen-763633-unsplashPhoto by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash

Empty life, gambling urges, coming on strong
Yes, I give up, I give in, your stronger than me
I cannot resist, this urge I have to feed
There I have done it, I have gambled, I have lost once again
Why dose it feel so wonderful to be back here again
What’s the psychology of this disease
Where I find no peace, nor contentment until I deplete my finances
I will struggle over the next few weeks, all my own fault of course
Don’t you Pity me, don’t you do that
My choice’s, decisions by my own hand
You can never win, at the casino’s, take my word
No matter how inviting it looks on the screen, and the possibilities they offer to entice
Don’t you be drawn int that abyss of misery, worry tension and concern
Cause that’s where it is leading, when will we ever learn
A very temporary release from life’s distress, disappointment, bewilderment, and frustrations
But they will still be here tomorrow, but you like I, will have a lighter wallet
While those on the other side, will laugh, smirk and live it up, at your expense.

Life Without a Partner

jordan-steranka-616004-unsplashPhoto by Jordan Steranka on Unsplash

Do you ever question, why are you actually living
What’s it all about, it’s a mystery to me
Lurching from one empty day to another
Is life not expected to be better than this

Potential love partners turning away
Before a fella has a chance to have a say
Impress them with my wit, my brain, my intellect
Look here sweetie, can’t you see what you could be missing

Do I seem that desperate, do I seem that keen
Trust me sweetheart, I ain’t overawed by what you may offer
Would you meet the standards I have set in my mind, for a partner I may entwine with
Are you more than a pretty face, are the characteristics that matter
Actually in place. Kindness, generosity, patience, loyalty, discretion, sanity and more
How about you convince me, you got them by the score
Then maybe I would look you way, try you out for a day
See if we hit it off, see what future we may have together

But what if all you meet, are semi aggressive potential partners
Who show little interest, just an obvious disdain
That one may perhaps be a burden, and I ain’t sayin a pain
But that’s the general thrust of the reaction I am getting
From the people I meet. I wonder what the answer is
To this dilemma I  twist in my mind

I am searching for love, companionship, compatibility and peace
Am I to live my life out, single, lonely, certainly not meek
Am I being punished by some God up above
What’s going on here, why can’t  I find love
I have so much to offer, I’ll see you right
That’s if I can find a suitable partner, I’ll help you through the night

The next day, and life itself, as we move on together, I’ll see you right
What is the answear, I dont know, maybe thats why I’m feeling so low.

Blank Space.

Photo by Geran de Klerk on Unsplash

He awoke, finally. Another uncomfortable, barley slept night. A thirst, that no amount of water could ever quench. In the darkness he lay on the bed, listening to the silence. Slowly his mind began to clear a little. Images of the previous few days passed through his mind.

Acquaintances, strangers. Alcohol, pubs. Airplanes, city lights. Heavy traffic. Laughter. Dancing, darkened nightclubs, Thumping music. A mishmash of images and recollections, fading in and out of his memory. Brief and unclear. His head was heavy. Stomach empty and aching for food.

Never again, he promised himself. It’s just not worth it. Never was. Foolish, inane,  conversations, with forgettable, ridiculous people he hardly knew or cared for. False camaraderie and human closeness. A brief interlude from an empty life. The paranoia as usual was ever present, greatly exaggerated by the copious amounts of alcohol.

His memory was patchy of the previous few days. Unsure how long it had being this time. One evening, a few days, or maybe a week or two. He knew the gaps in his memory would eventually be filed. He made his way to the bathroom, unsteady on his feet, tripping over en route. The bloodstained light coloured carpet, of little surprise to him. His bloodied hands, unexpected. Through bloodshot eyes, he glanced at his face in the low lit bathroom mirror. Sickened, and angry at his own inability to control his addiction. He quickly looked away. Dried blood on the newly scratched scars on his face and neck. He slapped himself hard about the face, encouraging this dream to end. He threw water on his face, to awaken his consciousness.

He again checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Still the bloodied facial scars. He looked at his hands. His body was tense, and tightly held. His fists clenched. Swollen veins protruding through his muscular arms. His once lean and trim torso now beginning to show the signs of alcohol abuse. The unsightly swollen area covering his liver. His stomach losing its muscular definition. He watched himself, through narrow, piercing, angry eyes, the veins throbbing either side of his head in the bathroom mirror. How had his life come to this, he asked himself.

Snippets’ of angry words, surfaced in his memory. Screaming, tearful, hysterical and  pleading. Thoughts and a determination to avenge her disrespect. She would be made to pay. He would see her weep, and be distraught, and only then would he be at peace. He would take from her, what she had taken from him. He swaggered from the bathroom like the wealthy, powerful successful man he was. He had not finished with her yet.

‘Come here’, he demanded. ‘I want to speak to you’. His loud voice vibrating around the house.

He roughly opened the bedroom closest to him, and slammed it closed loudly when he found it empty. In his disoriented hung over state he found it hard to navigate his own home. Doors appearing where they did not belong. Rooms not where they should be.
Like a savage beast intent of finding sustenance, he marauded around the first floor of the house. Again he tripped over it, on the way back to his room. This time switching on the landing light. He looked down at the bare leg protruding from the door, and followed its shape as he pushed open the door to the room. The cream coloured silken nightgown that covered the body, was torn, ripped. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she moaned softly. The bloodied nose, bruised ayes, matted hair, she lay at an awkward, unattractive angle.
He did not recognize her at all. Cursed himself quietly for drinking so much. He searched his mind for recollections, which were not forthcoming. The light from the landing illuminating the scene before him. The upturned chairs, clothes scattered untidily on the floor. The overturned, broken child’s cot. The non moving, non breathing form on the floor. He moved towards the child’s form on the floor, noting the blood matted hair on the back its head. Turned it over, and recoiled from the slightly tinged small blue face, and obviously broken bones in its jaw line. Congealed blood visible under the innocent skin. Thankful it was not his child, but also fearful and afraid.
His breathing now rapid, heartbeat thumping hard in his chest. Perspiration forming on his forehead, back and above his lip. Images of police officers. Court cases, vile newspaper headlines. Prison, for ever.
Standing up, now energized with the adrenaline pumping through his body, his legs shaking. His mind screaming and begging for it not to be so.
He quickly returned to the bedroom from where he came, slipped on his crumpled jeans, and a white t-sheet. Searched underneath the bed for his shoes, and ran down the stairs and out of the house at speed, leaving the front door open. Into the still dark early morning, he ran. Along, somewhat now familiar streets. The shock helping to clear his mind. He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could. Pass the other detached houses. Down the tree lined streets, with the expensive cars outside. In the early morning, birdsong echoed softly.
He could not find his way out of the large, select cul-de sac, passing the same properties, again and again. He stopped outside a detached house, exhausted after his intense running, breathing hard. That dark Mercedes looked quiet familiar, with the sticker from the French holiday campsite on the trunk. He moved closer toward the car in the driveway, the gravel crunching under his feet. Peered into the backseat, at the two property magazines laying there. Further examined the the front passenger seat, and the child seat, with the recognizable rag doll toy, resting on it. The security light from the house, activated by his movement, illuminated the area.

She opened the front door quietly, and peered out. Recognizing his, rather disheveled appearance, she marched out in anger. In the cold morning air, her breath was visible, as she moved closer to him. Her baby daughter on her hip, crying loudly. He continued to peer into the front seat of the car, leaning on the car roof for support. Breathing hard, and gently weeping. Thankful some memory was returning.
She moved closer to where he was leaning on the car, and glared and him, taking him in fully.

‘What have you done’, she snapped at him. More an accusation, then a question.

Her face contorted into an ugly combination of anger, disgust and fear, so close to his. Her screams were loud, piercing, in the quietness of the early morning.

‘What have you done’, again, she screamed.

‘Look at your hands, look at your hands. They are covered in blood’.



Written in response to writing prompt : ‘Trying to make sense of the events of last night’.


Photo by Nicolae Rosu on Unsplash

‘Go on, if you can dream it, you can do it.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, is that a quote from  your latest self help book.’

‘I’m only trying to be supportive on your endeavors and ambitions.’
‘Well that may be so, but save your silly positive incantations for someone who may actually be damn well interested in them’.

Another nail in her heart. Another tearing down of the relationship that was once warm and loving, but now was nothing of the sort.
She was just too nice, too pleasant. Too gentle. He had grown quiet tired of her ceaseless positivity, never ending support. The way she looked. The way she dressed. Her attitudes. Her character. Just totally sick and tired of her. A change was badly needed. Fresh blood, a new interaction. An energetic shift.

‘I’m going out for a while, no need to wait up.’

She sat alone in the darkened living room, watching but not really seeing the images flickering on the TV screen. She began to question in her mind, just what in Gods name she had to do, to make this relationship work. What she wanted most in life was a peaceful, tranquil, loving relationship. To be happy. To be in love, and be loved in return. But this was not happening for sure. She was very giving of her support, her love, her physicality, her warmth, her everything. Yet it now never seemed enough to satisfy him. She really did not want to leave him, but the never ending nastiness, caustic, cutting remarks about her weight, her looks, her abilities, her aspirations, her career. Were just becoming too much. Thoughts of suicide crossed her mind from time to time, but she had resisted up to now. Although he had encouraged her in that regard, reminding her, many times, helpfully, that no one really liked her. That she had no friends, and that she would not be missed if she decided upon that avenue. Her life, her relationship was causing her way too much unhappiness and despair. How soon would it be before his anger turned to physical violence, and would she accept that also. All in her search for the loving relationship she was seeking. She tried to understand why she was afraid to leave him. Was it, that after soo many years of verbal jibes, the cutting, destructive remarks, she no longer had the psychological strength to believe she could ever be attractive, or a worthwhile partner to any other man. He had told her on many occasions, that no other man would ever want her. After hearing such words over and ever again, she had come to believe them. To say he was a toxic individual, would be an understatement. In her occasional lighter moments she laughed silently as she concluded how he could keep psycharisitics busy for years. But those moments were few and far between.

Even those still close to her had seen, and some had commented on the change. Her family had asked her many times, how things were with him. Fine she lied. But they could see her spirit was being drained, and she was a shadow of her former self. The few girlfriends she meet secretly, so as not to anger him, could see and sense her unhappiness. But she denied it all, even to herself. Her self esteem lowered, to nearly none existent levels. Her once high self assurance disappearing bit by bit. Every day, she died a little. Day by day, under the, if not daily, but fairly regular verbal assaults. Words uttered under the guise of humour, banter, and sarcasm. But words that had a deeper, more nasty intent. Designed to hurt and destroy. To undermine and tear down. Ever fearful of another day living with him. She had tried speaking to him, but he just quickly cut her down any such communication. At this stage she was no more than a nobody. Someone who provided him with sexual release. Now an empty a pointless experience for her, which she dreaded. Devoid of love, warmth and compassion. She was more than happy when it was over, glad when he no longer touched her body,

She did not want to go back to them, but now it seemed like her only option. She wanted to move away from that lifestyle. She wanted to play life on a level playing field, with no extra advantage, and succeed by her own means, without help from them.
The cat, sensing her despair, moved from its resting place in the corner of the room, and jumped up onto her lap. The animal moved its body closer to her face, as if she wanted to embrace and comfort her. She lamely smiled and put the cat in her lap, and stroked it nonchalantly. She slowly drifted off to sleep, as the animal keep her company.

In the noisy atmosphere of the pub, the discordant music thumped loudly from the speakers. The heaving crowd moved as one to the music. Strangers bodies entangled like long term lovers. This to him was more like it. Action and energy with people not so full of love. Glad to be out of the damn house. People with a rough edge. These were the people he wanted to be around. He held the glass of beer in front of him, as he too moved to the music. Watching from the sidelines. The tight leather jackets. Some dressed in Pvc clothing. Sexual in nature.
She came and stood beside him, and brazenly asked him for a cigarette. Dark black hair, dark, black clothing, and heavy boots. With light white make up, and heavy dark eye shadow, and red lipstick, that covered her full lips. She smiled, revealing her perfectly set teeth. He took note of her body, thankful for her revealing, tight fitting clothing. He approved of her look, and offered her a cigarette.
She took the cigarette, letting her hand linger on his, and smiled. It was clear she was as attracted to him, as he was to her. He looked into her wide eyes, and she held his gaze. Just something about her confidence, made her even more attractive. He studied her lips, and moved closer. His confidence boosted by the alcohol, with no words, he moved his lips to hers. She responded. Her lips were as soft and tasteful as he had imagined. He moved his hips to hers. They stood together as one, while the music thumped loudly, they began to gyrate to the beat.

After a short time, after they both ingested more alcohol, which was effecting his vision and stability, unusual for him.
‘Come, lets go from this place’, she demanded.
‘Where to ?’
‘Come with me’. Her voice was loud, and commanding.

In the cold evening night, as other revellers noisily made their way from one drinking establishment to another, she hailed a black cab. She quietly gave the address to the driver, and helped him into the back seat. In the rain sodden night, the cab mad its way to the suburbs. He sat close to her and breathed in her scent. His imagination firing up, about the night to follow. He smiled in anticipation. Somewhat troubled by increasing sense of disorientation. But he comforted himself by expecting it to clear up once out in the fresh air.

The others began to gather in the dilapidated church. Quiet, muted murmurings barely hiding the building excitement. To any outsider, they looked so ordinary, dressed in their day to day clothing. Housewives, elderly people. Doctors, Businessmen, Consultants. But as they donned their dark robes, and began to decorate the large black altar, with the pentagram, chalice, the elements of the earth, wind, ocean and fire, and the unlit candles. The horned skeletal head. Representing the demons worshiped. An opening to that gateway. They no longer seemed innocent. Now, way more sinister.
It had being some time. But she was a good hunter, and the high priestess always knew she could be relied upon to do what was required. The black cab dropped them outside the padlocked gates of the dilapidated and run down church. The city lights, of the vast metropolis looked so inviting, from the elevated area overlooking it. She took his drunken head in her hands and gently kissed her lips. Pressing her taunt body again his, encouraging his speculation. Taking his hand, she guided him towards the church.

‘Come’, she said softy, enticing him.

He smiled foolishly, and followed her through the rusted gates, she opened with ease. From the outside, the church was covered in brambles and leaves, much of the stone work was broken and cracked. The church was darkened within. Up the gravel path they went together, she linking his arms, as he struggled to steady himself. Slightly irritated he was unable to clear his head. Agin he glanced at her well defined body, and his excitement grew. She pushed at the large oak door, that gave way easily enough. Slowly it opened, creaking as it did so. The church was empty. Dark and cold. She took his hand and lead him into the foyer cold stone paving and dark wood panelled interior, empty. They moved through a second door, into the confines of the church.

The door behind him, shut rapidly, loudly and with some force. Once inside, she broke contact with his hand, and moved to stand by the high priestess. Tall and also dressed in black. They embraced each other, and kissed each other softly on the lips. He stood, dumbfounded and watched the scene unfold before him. Rapidly coming to his senses. His disorientation now replaced by a thumping heart, shaking legs and a real sense of dread. The large number of participants busily going about what they were doing, dressed in dark robes. The dim interior, lit by large candle’s. The palatable sense of excitement, of the robed congregation. He watched in some disbelief, as bramble and broken trees were piled high, in front of the black altar. He turned away and towards the door he had entered.
The high priestess laughed as she raised her hand, and pulled him back energetically from his possible escape. She weaved her hand, as she manipulated the energy that existed between them, to forbid his escape. He danced like a pupet in response to her manipulations. She pointed her hand towards the floor, and he sank immediately to his knees, as her forceful evil energy controlled his. To ensure compliance, she formed her hand into a v shape, between thumb and index finger, held it out in front of her, and brought the fingers closely together. He grasped at his throat, trying to release the energetic pressure that was crushing his windpipe, and smothering him. She released her energy, as he fell to the floor, holding his throat. Again she laughed.

At last they had finished building the pyre, and took their seats. The chanting began. Low, monotone, but hypnotic in its flow. He was brought, struggling to stand in front of the pyre. The High Priestess stood beside him, and began to recite in Latin. Her voice took on a deep, almost manly, demonic tone. Rasping and frightening in its intensity.  She then turned to him, and spoke again in latin. The attractive woman he had met in the music pub hours earlier, translated for him.

‘Our sister has called out to the heavens, in her hour of need. She may not have wanted this, but she is one of us, and will always be. It is our belief that you must make reparations for your cruelty. We offer you as a live sacrifice to feed the demons who rule our lives, as we bow down before them, and worship them’.

The chanting became louder, rasing in volume. Reaching towards a crescendo. The perspiration began to stream down his forehead, and his back. His heart palpitating at an enormous speed. His breathing, fitful, and hard to catch. Roughly he was taken to the stretcher that lay on top of the pyre, and tied to it, with old ragged, but strong rope. He struggled as the briars and brambles beneath him were set alight. Quickly the blue and yellow flames rose up the wooden pyramid temple that held him.
She awoke many hours later, the cat having long left her lap. Now securely resting in its basket on the other side f the living room. The shone shone brightly through the light curtains, that covered the living room window. Something was different, she could sense it, or perhaps it was just the result of a good nights sleep.
But she felt clearer and more energized than she had in a long time. More light and free. With all this good energy running round her, she could not stay still and had to dissipate it some how. She set about cleaning the house from top to bottom. Not something she had done for queit some time. Happily she began to prepare dinner for her she and her partner, hoping for a better day. She knocked on the bedroom door, when the food was ready.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here :