Unattainable

 

“You’ll meet in the spring, where you’re not going now,

“You’ll have a shared interest; you’ll know it’s right.”

Words of a psychic sound strange somehow.

What could the interest be? Maybe they’ll write.

Fast forward to spring, black hair and black coat,

A striking appearance, could this be him?

But how to get talking? I watch, remote,

He unlocks his car door, opens, gets in.

I watch as he drives past my own parked car.

Next time he smiles and gives me a wave.

Two magpies appear, sign of joy to my heart,

I ponder his name: Steven, Simon or Dave?

Just one tiny gesture to make my heart sing,

But then dashed in an instant, the flash of a ring.

Sonnet to a Teenage Date

 

The waves lap gently against the sea wall,

We kiss as the sun sinks in the evening sky.

I could love you, give you my all,

Few precious hours only belong to you and I.

Walking back overwhelming sadness,

From tonight I’ll never see you again.

Never will we ever share that oneness,

That magic won’t be there with other men.

Time will pass, we’ll each belong to others,

Life moves on with joys and trials aplenty,

You’ll become a father, me a mother,

Blessed with families, hearts not empty.

Memory Lane calls often and I wait.

I never have forgotten you my teenage date.

With thanks to Maureen Turner for sourcing the image.

TRAPPED!

 

 

The body is but a vessel. We don’t choose what we are cast adrift on the sea of life in. It may be a sturdy heart of oak ship or it maybe a catamaran of driftwood barely clinging together. Whatever it is isn’t ours to choose.

Who decides? Some higher power? A divine entity? Or is it science, strong, healthy genes from the top of the pool pulling in sunlight, or weak, useless dregs mingled with silt from the bottom?

Some vessels are masters of the sea and plough on undeterred by its storms for a century or more whilst others flounder in cross currents, struggling, thwarted, but hanging on almost lifeless.

We have no choice but to sail in the vessel we are assigned. Some ride the waves: others are trapped.

~

Then we have the sea of matrimony. There are knaves and harridans aplenty, how to navigate away from these venomous scoundrels and waspish mares?

Love they call it. Charm they call it, but it’s all veneer.

They lure the unsuspecting heart into their web like a black widow spider stowed away on board the vessel, with sugar coated words and deeds and when the weak foolish will of their victim succumbs it is too late, the fangs unsheath and the poor fool is trapped.

~

Meet Me at the Pearly Gates

 

Why had Sabrina suddenly begun to dream about Gordon Challinor? She hadn’t seen him since primary school. They’d been made to sit boy next to girl and they’d been put together. He’d been her first childhood crush aged seven with his bouncy dark hair and mischievous brown eyes. They’d flirted in a childish manner; he’d pinch her ruler and flick paper at her from the end of it and laugh when it hit her in the face. She’d slap him playfully and share his laughter. Kiss chase played in the playground was always a game to be looked forward to. She never ran too fast away from him, knowing he’d catch her up easily with the longed for kiss.

They’d lost touch when they’d gone to secondary school. He’d been cleverer than her and gone to the grammar school; she’d failed the eleven plus exam and gone to the local comprehensive. Their homes were a distance apart which was why they’d never seen each other around. Even during teenage night life their paths hadn’t crossed in discos, she’d almost forgotten him – but not quite. Occasionally he had come into her thoughts throughout life. Was he married? Had they had children? Boys or girls? She’d been blessed with a son and a daughter, now both with families of their own and here she was, widowed and having reached the age of seventy five.

Why was it Gordon not her late husband who was haunting her dreams? She missed Derek, of course she did, but she’d never felt they’d been soul mates. They’d got on well enough but hadn’t shared the same interests or been on the same wavelength. She’d accepted his death two years earlier and had grieved for him but hadn’t felt heartbroken. In fact she’d felt guilty for enjoying her own space. Now it was Gordon’s face that kept appearing to her.

The dreams were vague, hazy. His face was never clear but she knew it was him, even in the dreams where he appeared as a man, as she’d never seen him and could only ever wonder. Sometimes they spoke in the dreams, sometimes not. One in particular stuck in her mind. He'd walked her back to work at lunchtime. She’d leaned up and kissed him.

‘Love you,’ she’d said, then gasped realising that they hadn’t mentioned the ‘L’ word. She’d waffled. ‘Well I don’t. Well I do, kind of, you know what I mean.’

He’d laughed. ‘Yes I know what you mean. Love you too, kind of.’

That had been the snapshot of the dream but the feeling had lingered in her being throughout the next day, suffusing her soul with an apricot glow.

“Where have you come from Gordon Challinor?” she asked the empty room.

The thought nudged at her consciousness to contact her psychic medium, see what she had to say about it.

 

~

“Who is Gordon in spirit?” was the first thing Claudia asked.

Sabrina was aghast! She’d told her nothing.

“He was in my class at primary school but lately I’ve been dreaming about him – almost every night.”

“He’s your twin flame, your mirror soul. He’s only recently passed.” She paused as if listening. “He has a message for you. He says meet me at the Pearly Gates.”

If you enjoyed this story perhaps you'd like to take a look at my novels, memoirs and collections on my website.

http://www.sherrielowe.co.uk/ 

Thank you for reading.

 

A Chance Meeting

 

The German Christmas market was bustling. Stalls were set out with beautifully decorated gingerbread houses, sugar icicles dripping from their gabled rooftops, gingerbread men accompanying them wearing‘eat me’ smiles. Bregenwurst hung from hooks and illuminated reindeer peeped out among the Christmas trees that resided on the rooves of the colourful, well stocked stalls. The spicy fragrance of mulled wine intermingled with the more pungent smell of coffee and the comforting aroma of hot chocolate with marshmallows coiled in around the stalls tempting everyone with their warming qualities.

Their eyes met across the cheese stall, he with the silver grey tousled look of a gypsy, she sporting tumbling auburn locks with the aid of Nutrisse. She was coy, didn’t want him to catch her looking.

‘Good God woman,’ ran the thought through her head, ‘you’re pushing sixty, you don’t want the angst of an obsession over a man messing with your brain at your age. All that was done and dusted in your teens. Jog on, old fool.’

She continued to browse the stalls looking for little extras to hang on the tree for the grandchildren. She fancied some tasty cheese but she’d wait until he’d moved on. Wandering on she found herself at a stall selling mulled wine.

“I got you a cup, I hope you like it.”

The gypsy type was at her side.

“Er, yes, thank you, but you shouldn’t have.”

“I thought it would be a festive ice breaker. I’m Damien. You are?”

“Oh, like the devil child in The Omen.”

“Not so demonic I hope.”

“No hopefully not. I’m Regina – I blame my mother for that choice.”

Just then the couple behind him began to have a bit of a spat. She pushed her man, he knocked into Damien sending his face smack up against the side of the stall. Mulled wine spilled from the rims of the cups and something flew from his mouth.

“My God you’ve knocked your teeth out!” she exclaimed.

“Not quite as bad as that, it’ my crown, but where’s it gone? Cost me a fortune!”

“It flew towards me,” she said, immediately getting down on her knees to look for it.

He joined her and they scrabbled along the ground until her fingers closed over the tiny pebble like object.

“Here we are.”

“Thank goodness for that. Now I need to put it somewhere safe until I can get to the dentist.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” She rummaged in her bag and extracted a small tin that displayed, ‘Hello Kitty’ with a cat’s smiling face on the lid. “I keep mints in it but you can have it, I’ve got another one at home.”

“Thank you, you’ve saved the day. My, what an introduction.”

“Could have been worse, it could have been your teeth then you’d have had blood dripping down your chin like a vampire and been more at home on Halloween.”

“Certainly would! Anyway, looks like we’d better get some more mulled wine.” He held out his arm indicating for her to lead. “Shall we?”

If you enjoyed this festive tale you might like to have a look at my other creations on my website.

http://www.sherrielowe.co.uk/

Flying Sparks

 

It wasn’t the most romantic of meetings. Barbara Cartland wouldn’t have given it house room; but when our eyes met over the Wright’s meat and potato pie I knew he was the man for me.

            Bertram Ollerenshaw. Not the most romantic of names either. No Sebastian Montgomery, or even a Charles Sylvester. Nothing with a refined, sophisticated ring to it; just plain old Bertram Ollerenshaw. It suited him though. A down to earth, hard worker. He worked in the small, family owned pot bank around the corner. I’d never have met him if the cooker in their work’s canteen hadn’t blown up, but there you are. Fate works in mysterious ways. Anyway, we started courting and the rest as they say, is history.                                        

 He was a gentle man, my Bert. Always kind and softly spoken. I don’t think he ever raised his voice in all the years we were married. We were blessed with three lovely children and our life was content; not exciting, content. Many were the times we thanked God for faulty equipment, that dodgy cooker in his work’s canteen.

We were blissfully unaware however, that faulty equipment, as well as bringing about our introduction, would also be our swansong. Lovely man that he was, you’d never have said that Bert was a DIY genius. He’d never have passed Tommy Walsh’s inspection, but he had a go; he always had a go.

If only he hadn’t had a go at the outside light. My fault really. I only mentioned it, but knowing bodge it Bert’s bungling enthusiasm, I should have kept my mouth shut and called the electrician; played it safe. You can’t be too careful with electricity.

All would have gone well if there hadn’t been a power surge just as Bert was about to disconnect the light. I’ll still see the look on his poor face until my dying day. He wore a quizzical ‘What the…?’ kind of look, just for a split second, then he lit up like Postman Pat at Blackpool Illuminations, before crashing off the ladder to the floor.

I did everything I could. The paramedics did everything they could, but it was no use. My poor Bert was fried to a crisp. It seemed ironic somehow to then have him cremated, but that had been his wish. He’d wanted his ashes scattered on our favourite clifftop in Cornwall, where we’d walked in our youth.

So here I am today, doing just that. I raise my hands, tossing the contents of the urn, all that’s left of my poor Bert, onto the feisty sea breeze. There you go Bert. Dance on the breeze my darling, rest on the clifftops. Goodbye my love – until we meet again.

Red Tail Lights

 

Red Tail Lights

A snapshot

 

One night was all they had, borrowed time.

Precious time.

A chance meeting at a lunch party.

An evening on the beach.

A picnic.

Champagne and strawberries on a red gingham cloth.

Walking in the water; shallow waves breaking over bare feet.

Tender kisses in the glow of sunset,

The breeze off the sea lifting their hair.

The summer night casting its magic spell.

He couldn’t stay; work would take him to a far off land.

One night was all they had.

Those footsteps would never be walked again.

He took her home.

One last kiss.

The last she saw of him were the red tail lights of his car receding into the darkness of the lane.