Acrophobia

By Jane Goodhew

Today was important but I was not sure if I could go through with it as ever since I was a small child, I had had an irrational fear of having my feet anywhere other than on the ground. Okay, that was a slight exaggeration as I did not sleep on the floor and I travelled by plane to lands far afield, as far as New Zealand and Raratonga so I had been high, high above the clouds and no harm had befallen me. This was different, I would not be seated in a tin can with a seat belt around me and people to talk to or ignore depending on my mood and theirs.

 

                               

        

 

I had accepted a new position and foolishly had not done my homework first for if I had I would most certainly have said a distinct NO! It was too late now for I had signed on the dotted line and there was no turning back as I had worked all my life to get this job. To get to the top of the ladder figuratively speaking, which was the irony of it all. Once I had found out that the office was on the 72^nd floor and I had panoramic views across the whole of the city as it was mainly glass, I went straight into panic mode.  The room span, I felt sick and could not think about anything but trying to breathe and not just drop dead there and then. I took deep breaths and concentrated on my feet so that I could at least feel the ground beneath them. I tried to remember all that I had been taught over the years of therapy as I had not wanted to take medication and become addicted to a pill when the fear was in my mind therefore under my control. I sometimes wonder about that when I struggle just to survive without everyone noticing what is happening to me. When friends tell me not to be so silly and just get there, get on with it, and enjoy the fantastic views that most people would die for! All the rewards that come with being top dog in such a prestigious firm.  That was exactly what was wrong with me, I felt as if I would die and how would that look in the middle of a board meeting?

Shaking like a leaf on a tree in a storm, like a jellyfish in the shallow water having been thrown by a large wave. My eyes well up with tears as the fear takes grip and no matter how much I try to rationalize it just the thought is enough to put me into a state of panic.

 

I sit down and talk to myself as if I were a simple child, I think of , what do I think, that’s just it I can’t think, all I can do is put my head in my hands and wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.    I try to imagine I am free, free as a bird soaring high in the sky and I can look down on the world without fear, without having a full-blown panic attack. I am free.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 

                                            

Fear of Falling

 Fear of Falling

By Christopher Mathews

The alarm was set for 4:00 in the morning, but he awoke well before dawn, stirred by some inner clock. The birds had not yet risen to lay claim to their patch of the clear, summer sky.

The sweet, breathless morning air refreshed his senses, bypassing his troubled mind, he lay still, as the physical sensation of peace washed over him, his limbs restful and quiet.

For a fleeting moment his dream lingered on, tethering him to that other world, beyond the reach of his restless mind. Until inevitably wakefulness came flooding back through the touch and sight and sounds of his own remorseful day.

The nightly truce between body and mind had passed. It is said that the unquiet mind rules the waking hours like a tyrant but, in the fortunate few is deposed at night by sleep.

He had packed his gear in the car the night before. Over coffee he scrawled a note to his wife which read,

“Don’t keep dinner, don’t wait up”.

He sat in the car with the engine running, setting the destination on the satnav. It read back to him in a bright cheerful woman’s voice:

“Beachy Head, popular tourist spot, high on the white chalk cliffs of the South Downs, overlooking the English Channel, on a clear day visitors can see all the way to France”. 

But it also has a darker reputation, not mentioned in the tourist guidebooks. These visitors only tell their story in brief scrawled notes.

He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and turned off the satnav. This journey should not be interrupted by the ceaseless chatter of this trivial world.

The roads were empty as the moonlight, low in the sky flickered through the trees lining the narrow lanes, rendering everything in its harsh, silver, ribbons.  Like blades cutting “snicker-snack”, chasing him through the landscape. He thought how different this was from his daily commutes battling with traffic. It was as if the roads had cleared themselves to make way for this one journey.

After an hour or so the hedgerows thinned and became open fields for the last two miles. The moonlight was now soft and gentle like snow on the rolling fields.

“Almost there, he thought, not long left”.

Past the last slumbering village and approaching the Seven Sisters, he now turned east toward his destination, the highest point of the cliff looking down on the Beachey Head lighthouse, caught between night and day, moonlight and the soft glow of the pre-dawn morning. He thought absurdly how the lonely lighthouse looked like a toy sitting forgotten on the beach, left behind by some giantish child who had been making sandcastles the day before.

Not bothering to lock the car he swung his pack on his back, tightened the straps, and walked, his mind fixed on the highest point of the cliff where the earth stopped, and the heavens began.

He stood right on the edge, swaying slightly as the gentle sea breeze brought the taste of brine to his lips. He fought against waves of vertigo which tingled through his limbs like electricity. Strange, how the line between the fear of falling and exhilaration is so thin. So very different but both sharing the same visceral sensation, which hijacks the mind and overpowers the senses. And still he swayed on the spot, teetering on the edge of decision.

A thin white pre-dawn mist lay over the calm dark water, diffusing the horizon between sea and sky, one vast seamless canvass. the great expanse of heaven was all about him. As if he himself was witnessing the creation of the formless world on the very first day. “Formless,” he pondered the word, a memory of a dusty bright sunlit Sunday School swam into his mind when he was eight, of opening a heavy bible which said:

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.”

The cliffs below him were suddenly caught in the blaze of the rising sun as it broke the eastern horizon. like burnished gold leaf overlaying the chalk cliffs.

“And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.”

“This is the perfect day”, he thought to himself.

As on the very first day of the world, not a soul looked on, he was quite alone. The vast sky was above him and soft dewy grass at his feet. To his right his shadow was that of a giant, but he himself felt small and insignificant.

Trembling, he said to himself,

“I don’t have the nerve to jump, the fear of falling is too strong.”

Turning, he walked deliberately back, counting out 20 paces, the prescribed distance. Gazing wistfully over the rolling green patchwork of the Sussex Downs he turned his back on England and ran fast towards the precipice. At the very edge of the world his feet danced in empty air as he leapt into nothingness; arms outstretched to embrace the vast heavens. His fear of falling was swallowed up by the joy of flying.

Then came a sudden jolt as his billowing white chute opened above him.

Base Jumping is a reckless sport, but in that brief moment he felt alive.

The strong updraft of the salty sea breeze carried him high above the cliffs. The harness of his paraglider creaked and strained to bear his weight aloft until he was well above the downs. Blacked-backed gulls joined him, taking advantage of the same thermals rising from the land. Soon he was joined by other paragliders each riding the crest of an invisible wave, which forms high above the cliff tops.

The sun was fully up now, the twilight having been banished like a bad dream. Sightseers like ants looked up at the spectacle of that strange flock which soared back and forth along the cliff.  Like a colony of latter-day pterosaurs they wheeled rising, falling and rising again. Until having reached the top of the wave they turned to make their slow descent inland.

The fear of falling, like the bleak night was swallowed up as he soared up into the clear, bright and lovely, delightful day.

© Christopher Mathews Feb. 2024

 Rory of the Rovers

By Len Morgan

For three years, Rory Miller had been the top scorer for Melchester Rovers, ever since Jason Fairfax, his friend, had been sold to Coryton United.  So, Rory became Melchester’s star player until he was callously hacked down by his ex-friend Jason in a game against Coryton United.  Rory came away with a broken leg and dislocated hip he was out of the game, flying a wheelchair for the foreseeable future.  He still attended all the training sessions and games, as a coach, encouraging the younger players, like Alan Peters who was currently wearing his No.9 shirt.

 

Peters was young, not another Rory but he was a good player and given time would be a great player.  He just needed to gain experience.  Melchester lost their next game and drew the following two.

 

Rory ran through the first game, in his mind, and dreamed it that night, with himself in Alan’s boots.  He knew exactly what had gone wrong, and gave Alan appropriate advice plus some extra training.  The next two games showed improvement but were both draws. 

 

Then came the return fixture with Coryton United.  A few nights before the game, Rory dreamed of the match.  Jason Fairfax pulled the same crippling stunt on Alan that had sidelined Rory.  He warned Alan, telling him when it was likely to happen.

 

He was on the sideline during the first half but hadn’t slept well the previous night. His wheelchair was parked in the dugout with the management team when the second half started, but he was drowsy and dozed off.

 

 He began to dream, he was on the pitch.  The right-back passed him the ball and he headed for goal; as he did so Fairfax slid in with his dangerous tackle, Rory jumped and the attack missed its target.  He shot and the ball went into the top right corner.  Alan turned to find Fairfax writhing in agony; he’d twisted his knee and pulled a hamstrung muscle.

 

The roar of the crowd woke Rory from his doze, in time to see Alan’s celebration at scoring the winning goal!

 

Later, Alan related his experience.

“It was almost as if my body had been taken over by somebody else.  When I started my run on goal, I did it exactly as Rory would have done.”

 

“Except it was you Alan, now I think the Rovers have an excellent player in my place.  I reckon I’ll have trouble winning my place back when I finally get fit,” he smiled and patted Alan on the back. “Nice one!”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

A Renku

a renku

 

from Rob Kingston

 

published in the British journal, Blithe Spirit yesterday.

 

CHILD’S HAND (Shisan)

 

nursery garden

a single cherry blossom

in the child’s hand                           rk

 

balloons

roll across the grass                        ak 

 

on the tin roof

light rain

rousts the sparrows                         db

 

that summer night more than

father would have approved              rk

 

her prince

left hugging his pillow 

dreams glass slippers                       pc

 

the hairpin bend

reveals resting tahrs                         ak 

 

behind the band shell

a clarinet

gathers dust and rust                        pc

 

fog slides in 

to join us for hors d'oeuvres              db 

 

the Man in the Moon

beams gently through

a hospice room                                 ak

 

SS Kidwelly 

still speaks of its ghosts                     rk

 

downstream

a bonfire

smokes canyon walls                          ak 

 

hieroglyphics

for decoding come morning                pc 

 

Sabaki - Linda Papanicolaou USA

rk - Robert Kingston UK

ak - Amoolya Kamalnath INDIA

db- Don Baird   USA

pc - Pris Campbell.  USA

 

  

 We Walked to School

 

By Sis Unsworth

 

Through sunny days, or rain filled sky,

dense London smog, or freezing snow,

no cars for us to travel by,

through all seasons, we would go.

 

Small girls, some dressed in ankle socks,

no matter what the weather.

Hand-knitted scarves, and homemade frocks,

we walked along together

 

Past the old canal, and market square,

with more friends, we would rally.

Through dingy streets, we would chat in pairs,

As we walked down through the alley.

 

Though our skin was chapped, by wind and cold,

this was our life, we knew no other,

Walking to school now is a thing of old,

Now it’s off in the car, with Mother.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Guardian Angel

Guardian Angel 

By Sis Unsworth

‘I would have liked a guardian angel,’ he heard the old man sigh,

‘I’ve never had much luck in life,’ he looked towards the sky,

I didn’t win the lottery, a race, or premium bond,

Or even bought that great big house, of which I’d been so fond,

I really had to work hard, no handouts there for me,

I couldn’t find a pot of gold, or shake the money tree,

If I’d had a guardian angel, what riches would be mine?

I’d be so very happy now, my life would be just fine.’

 

You didn’t hear the whisper or the murmur in the breeze?

‘But all your life I’ve been with you,’ the angel said with ease,

you never suffered illness or had to beg for more,

And who do you think protected you when you went off to war?

I thought you’d count your blessings when I helped you to this stage,

Others weren’t so lucky and never reached your age,

You’ve had a long and healthy life, but how little have you grown,

It’s now you’ll need me most of all ~ see how you cope alone.’

                                                   Copyright Sis Unsworth  

  

The Estuary ~ (A Conversation)

 The Estuary  ~ (A Conversation) 

By Janet Baldey 

“So, any luck today?” 

“Firstly,”  I held up a finger.  “It was such a lovely day, I decided to take a walk along the estuary. Hadn’t gone a hundred yards when I found myself lying face down, my nose inches from a puddle. Completely dazed… Hadn’t a clue what had happened, but although I was winded, nothing seemed to be broken.  Even Essex mud can sometimes be a blessing.  Anyway, feeling a perfect fool, I began to get up, hoping no-one had seen.  Fat chance….seconds later I was being suffocated by lavender and a female voice was doing its best to hit top C.” 

“Are you alright?  Marcus, you bad dog, how could you?  Here, let me help you up.  Oh no!  Now, I’ve made it worse. I’ve got paint all over your lovely jacket.  How stupid!  You must let me pay for it.”  Her voice rose even higher, chasing larks into the sky.

          I looked at the woman jitterbugging in front of me.  Middle fifties, maybe.  Blonde, plump.  I was about to tell her what I thought about her and her damn dog, when I took a second look.    Her clothes were casual but obviously top quality and I’d swear the pearls glowing in her ears and around her neck were the real thing, so I changed the shape of my mouth into a smile.

          “Please don’t worry, it was my own stupid fault…wasn’t looking where I was going.  Is this the culprit?”

          Now, you know I dislike dogs intensely, but I made myself pat the hairy thing drooling in front of me.

          “I’m afraid so, He’s usually so good but he must have seen a rabbit and when he does, the red mist descends and he’s off.”         

I nodded understandingly.  Then, I noticed a smudge of blue paint on her nose, an easel and a half-finished canvas and quickly made the logical conclusion. “Why, you’re an artist!”         

She laughed, a shrill tinkling sound that made the fillings in my teeth ache.  “Oh hardly, I just dabble, I only took it up after my husband died.”

          I pretended to admire the widow’s painting.  “It’s very good.”  (It wasn’t, just a mere daub – God, the things I do for you.)

          “Do you think so?”

          “Absolutely.  It’s just that…excuse me, do you mind?”  I reached for the brush and added a couple of thin, ochre lines.  “There…”         

“Oh, that is so much better.”  The old girl clasped her hands, looking as if she was peeing herself with joy.  “Do you paint?”

                “Used to but when Mater and Pater fell ill, I had to move out of the Manor.  Care Home fees are so expensive, you know.  Where I live now, there is hardly room to swing the proverbial cat, let alone store canvasses and what not.” 

          Blondie’s eyes widened, she couldn’t have looked more stricken if she’d caught me strangling a cat – or her bloody dog.

                 “What a terrible shame.  It’s obvious that you’re sooo talented.”

                 I hid a smirk and looked sad. “Of course, I miss painting immensely – almost as much as I do the parents.”

                 Her voice dropped to whisper, as if she was in the very presence of the dead.  “I understand completely.  Tell me, what is it that you do?”

                 “Got a little business going – internet design.  Not doing too badly actually – in fact I’m on the brink of something earth shattering.  If, of course, I can raise the money to finance it.  Anyway, enough of nasty business talk.  Where do you go to paint?” 

                 “I belong to a local group; we meet in the village hall.  It’s great fun.  Oh, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.  Why don’t you come along and join us.  I’m sure we could learn from you.”

                 No doubt about that, I thought.  Aloud, I said.  “Do you know, I’d really like to.  Take my mind off my business worries.  But, as I said, easels and canvasses take up a lot of space.”

                 She fingered the pearls at her neck and my mouth watered.

                 “That’s no problem.  I rattle along in my big old house like a pea in a pod.  I’ve got plenty of room.  Come and see.”

                 I held up a second finger. “So, I helped her pack up and she dragged me along and wow, that house!   Drowning in ivy, glowing in the sun, slumbering under oaks, all the clichés you can possibly think of, and I had an ‘in’!”  I licked my lips and leaned back in my chair.

 “And thirdly?”         

“Give me a chance, babe.  But thanks to Marcus, I’ve sown a whole row of seeds and they’ll fruit soon enough.  Anyway, what happened with you.  Did the old goat bite?”

 

          The words were no sooner out of my mouth when a shaft of sunlight coloured her hair rose-gold.

 

 She crossed her long, bronzed legs and lifted one perfect eyebrow.  “Stupid question – wish I hadn’t asked.”

 

Copyright Janet Baldey