Pandora's Box

Pandora’s Box.

This was it. She was over him. She had decided that the fifteenth of February, 2013 was to be the date chiselled indelibly into the headstone erected over the grave of their love. Today.

Every day for the last year Claire had stood under the fallout from the explosion that was the end of their relationship. Acid rain falling into her life. The adrenaline surges of anger, the myriad ghosts of memory everywhere she looked, peaceless spectres of the past with nowhere to go. Stabs of hatred, murderous thoughts as illicit as pornography, creeping into those darkest, sleepless hours. She had never before realized that to hate was as consuming as being in love, pulsing in every cell of her weary body.

It wasn’t David who was the principal target for this hatred. It was Kate. Her former best friend, betrayer, charmer, all round toxic human being. Sugar-coated cyanide. And thinner than her, too.

The fifteenth of February, 2013 would also mark the day when she finally buried the stinking corpse of her hatred, deep, deep underground, so it would never be dug up.

Claire looked around her and sighed. She had developed some atrocious habits during her year long mourning/hating period. Greasy dust caked every surface, deceased arachnids hung like warnings of a similar doom from the many cobwebs. A dirty teacup from her mother’s last visit two weeks ago (her mum refused to drink out of a mug), still sat on the magazine-strewn coffee table. Numerous filthy plates skulked, ashamed round the side of the sofa, their contents by now spot-welded on. There was a smell, too. An unloved sort of smell.

She thought about tidying up a bit before Ben arrived. But she decided that she didn’t have time and, more crucially, couldn’t be bothered. Ben wouldn’t care, anyway. He was used to her mess.

It had all begun three years ago, almost to the day she thought, with a fresh jolt to her heart. A cheesy Valentine’s card featuring a butterfly on a rosebud, unsigned of course, plopping on her doormat. Huge, embossed, glittery, undoubtedly expensive and as tasteless as they come. Still, it was the only Valentine’s card she had received in years, so she wasn’t going to scoff. She maintained a cynical attitude to the whole money-gobbling and emotionally-blackmailing enterprise and always said that she didn’t want a stupid Valentine’s card, anyway. But when this one arrived, smelling faintly of rose like the drifting scent of hope, she realized that this wasn’t true.

“I reckon I know who this is from.” Kate had said, studying the card.

“Who cares.” Claire replied with studied indifference.

“You do.”

“O.K. I’ll indulge you. Who do you think it’s from?”

Kate gave her a mischievous smile. “David. I caught him gazing at you the other day. And haven’t you noticed how he always goes to the coffee machine just after you?”

Now that Kate mentioned it, Claire had noticed...

Kate handed back the card. “He’s probably just winding you up, anyway. He must know how much you hate Valentine’s day. Everyone else does.”

But David hadn’t been winding her up. He really had fallen for her. Claire couldn’t think why, especially when he worked so closely with the beautiful, elegant (and thin) Kate.

Ben would be here, soon. At eleven on the dot, no doubt. He was the most prompt human being she had ever encountered.

But what was the point of torturing herself yet again with beginnings? The past was a prism in which to gaze, mesmerized by shards of bright, distorted memory, day after day, year after year, until all the years were gone.

She looked at her watch. Ben was late. In all the time she had known him... He had told her once, with his usual science-geek preciseness:

“If I’m late, it’s probably because I’ve been abducted by aliens. Although, it is highly unlikely of course that alien life forms could adapt to breath our atmosphere. Or, they might exist in another dimension altogether and manifest only as minute dust particles. A quantum reality entirely separate from our own would, by definition, be unrecognisable and intangible...”

“I get the message.” She had said. “And if I’m late?”

He shrugged, smiling. “An entirely normal scenario. I would suspect no alien interference.”

Good old Ben. Absolutely bonkers, but lovable and there. He had the most beautiful brown eyes too, like warm chocolate, she always thought. He had hugged her, mopped up her tears and listened to her tirades. He had braved her vile kitchen to cook her dinners and attempted to distract her by patiently teaching her why Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and Quantum theory couldn’t both be true, “although they demonstrably both are.”

He had been a bit quieter of late, though. Rather pensive.

Maybe he really had been abducted by aliens.

She and David had clicked immediately. It didn’t seem to matter that he wasn’t her type. Nothing like those nerdy, insanitary science-geeks she normally went for. He was handsome, accomplished, confident. He smelled nice. She broke all her own rules to be with him and she didn’t care.

They set the world on fire when they were together. Their relationship mystified all their friends – how the heck did these two mesh? They liked different music, different food, different films; they had diametrically opposed political views. He was a wild, former public school boy who proudly voted Conservative. Claire was a thumping Liberal from the rough side of town, used to hard work and self-discipline. “Control freak.” He had called her. Then he had shown her how to lose control.

“He won’t settle down, you know.” Kate had warned her. “I know him.”

Claire hadn’t realized, at that point, quite how well she knew him.

Ben had warned her, too. Her oldest friend from school days, he had watched with concern as her life spiralled out of control, never getting enough sleep, neglecting her work and every other part of her life. And it was true; the intensity of it all was beginning to wear her out. The highs left her dizzy and disoriented, a sort of love altitude sickness. And the lows... When he let her down, or said the wrong thing, or didn’t turn up at all, those times when she was left to free-fall into a dark place she hadn’t known existed. Then she found herself sobbing (yet again) into Ben’s best ‘Battlestar Galactica’ tee shirt.

Not that it slowed her down. She wanted more and more of David, his smiles, his touch, his wild, surprizing love, like a shot of some pure emotion drug, straight in the veins.

Until one day, getting ready to go on a night out with Kate. “May I remind you that there are other human beings on the planet, besides David.” Kate had said, when Claire hadn’t wanted to come. David was in London for a week and Claire was miserable. “You can spare your old pal an evening.”

Kate’s red box sat on her dressing table, mysteriously locked as ever. Claire had long been curious about its contents.

“Is it Pandora’s box?” She asked.

“It’s not Pandora’s. It’s mine.”

“What’s in it?”

“Never you mind.”

“Secret treasures? The severed fingers of men you once dated?”

Kate had given her a measured, impenetrable smile and ushered her out of the door. But later, when they came back from the club (where Claire had mainly sulked in the corner), she escorted a very drunk Kate to the settee and sneaked into the bedroom. The box would be locked, of course...

But it wasn’t.

Love letters. From David to Kate, dating back to months before she and David had got together, the latest one written a week ago. Claire sprawled on the bed, reading them for hours, every wounding word, phrases that cut jugulars. She herself sometimes got a mention: ‘You were right, darling, when you warned me how clingy Claire is...’ And: ‘You know I don’t really love her. Not like I love you.’ Lastly, this one: ‘She could do with losing a few pounds...’

As far as she could see from the letters, David and Kate had set her up, a sort of joke between them, an aphrodisiac. A bet, almost. David even made reference to ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ in one of his letters.

Kate said later that she regretted the whole thing and had left the red box unlocked on purpose. “It had all got out of hand and I had to stop it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist having a look.”

If only she had been able to see that Valentine’s card for what it was. She would have ripped it into a thousand million pieces of tack, scattering it to the wind like atomic dust.

For the first week afterwards she had holed herself up in her flat, alternately sobbing and staring into space. She spoke to no-one. She switched her phone off. She forgot to eat.

In the second week, she went to the hairdressers and had all her hair cut off. She gazed down with satisfaction at the long, gold locks shimmering on the floor and wondered if she was having a breakdown.

No such luck. She had just had to carry on, as if David and Kate hadn’t stolen her life. Now here she was a year later, no job, no social life to speak of and a short hair do. Ben said it suited her. Time to get her life back.

She was starting to get worried about Ben.

Then the door knocked. And there he was, standing on the doorstep, smiling sheepishly, his brown eyes melting into her heart. Ben.

“How was your alien abduction?” She said, shifting enough debris from the settee for him to sit down. But he remained standing. “Well, you are... twenty minutes late.”

He dropped his eyes. “Something even more sinister than that, I’m afraid. I went to buy you a Valentine’s card but they’d sold out, it being the day after. Anyway, I reckoned you’d think it was tacky so... I made you this, instead.”

He reached clumsily into his pocket and stretched out a line of newspaper hearts.

“Claire, I...”

She walked over to him, smiled into his deep brown eyes and held out her hand for the hearts.

“This is much better.” She said.

The copyright of this post belongs to Alison

Clock

Like a butterfly emerging from a shadow, my multi-coloured plated clock came out of a local auction and contained a story of love...
It was hand crafted. Frequent washing made it a menace in hot summers because each time the clock struck twelve, the sun burnt a little further into the hour hand.
In the middle of July, 1952, the hand snapped, like an angry poppet and more than half of it dropped off. I let out a quiet murmur, and part of me wanted to cast it into the nearest passing submarine so that it could be taken to the depths of the Atlantic.
But because English was only my second language, the admiral didn't understand me. He was laid back about the intended decimation, whilst I didn't dare blink my eye, in case the clock's red polish, that wasn't kind or valued, began to smear before even entering the ocean.
A flicker of the admiral's eye had me wondering whether I could actually let go this precious time-piece. Before finally casting the clock into eternity, I read some passages from the frequency gospel.

The copyright of this post belongs to Daniel Fishel

Thoughts on God

God is all loving thoughts. His heart is a bundle of joy, kindness, positive, friendship and last but definitely not least LOVE. His heart is bigger than his body he does not give out toys, paintings, sweets, books, computers, eggs, pets, junk shop stuff  he gives out love. Think of us as a window, every bad thing we do is a mark on the window. Spray  can not wash it off or washing up liquid or water not even MR MUSCLE the only thing that can get the marks away is kindness for instance, Debbie Mitchell is always rubbing her window clean with kindness! She gives away toys, flowers, positive  comments and love...but mostly love but do you know what? Debs is in your family. Let me tell you what I am talking about. Think of your baby brother/sister, your older brother/sister YOUR mum and dad your grandmother and grandpa your THEIR babe brother/sister THEIR big brother/sister THEIR mum and dad THEIR grandmother and grandpa and so on... well somewhere in there is Debbie because we are all brothers and sisters to Adam and Eve which means we are all siblings to each other and we are children of God we are all a FAMILY!

 by Xantippe Steele   
      

Ode

Your life is so far from mine
Full of friendship, laughter
And tattoos of deep
Sustaining meaning.

Such freedom can only be imagined
From this trap where I wither
Away to a small nothing.
The exotic keeps you company

Where you rise above the
Mundane. Escaping the pull
Of nothing and asserting your
Powerful, colourful kindness

Over us all. For surely
We are blessed to know you
Even if we are too far to share
Your everyday.

One day I will join you
To sing of gladness,
To soar like an albatross
High in the sky.


The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

The Magic of Story

Writing has a magical impact on your body and your attitude.Non-fiction or fiction, it takes you through a journey of imagination .You learn some, you win some. Each word has its meaning...a bit like every person has its skill. Reading and writing can take you back in time or forward into the future. What I find most amazing is every character has its feelings: some can be cowardly, some can be sheepish, some can be daring, some can be brave but each one has its own abilities and disabilities. Baddies can be a nightmare for a dark night with a full moon. Some goodies can be a dream in a blue midnight sky pricked with shining stars like decorations on a Christmas tree. Stories expand your imagination and give an urge for ideas.  Here's a piece of advice: people say that other people like and hate characters. Me, I just see the need for all of them: from a werewolf to a super hero. Here's another piece of advice: lots of people say we copy characters from real people but I think characters come from right here: the heart. The last thing I want to say is writing and reading is MAGIC.

The copyright of this post belongs to Xantippe Steele               

The Temple Plot: Fragment Two

'What colour was the horse?'

'What...WHAT, why are you asking that?' My patience had snapped. I made to get up, I was done with listening to this official lecture and interrogate me. One of Pharaoh's city guard, high ranking from the look of him, he was unfazed by my actions. He nodded to the burly subordinate that barred the door behind me. I felt his bulk move towards me and raised my hands in defeat. I flopped back in my chair. The room was cold and my bones ached for sleep. I had been offered water when they had hauled me in here but that was, must have been hours ago. Nothing since, my throat ached.

I had fled to the guard's compound when the crowd at the market place turned into a mob. Coming back from the cemetery, lost in thought of childhood times, I was startled from my contemplation by the sight of a mass of angry people who were lighting torches in the twilight, who were coalescing bent on. Bent on what? Reaching the market I moved to stand in the path of the main group. 'Friends, what is happening here,' I spoke up, letting my cloak fall open so they could see I was a priestess. 'Do not trouble yourself adoratrice,' replied one near the front, anger in his voice and eyes. He spat the last word out with venom and pushed past me, knocking me to the ground. I had to scramble and roll out of the crowd following behind, lest I be trampled. Those demented apes were bent on destruction. When I reached the compound, the guards were already roused but, instead of being thanked I was arrested.

The official was still going on about the damned horse.

'What colour was it?'
'Why is that relevant?' I retorted, pulling the sodden and dirty remains of the white gown closer.
'It may have been a military horse, the trouble it caused getting loose may have ignited the mob's ire.'

Oh sweet Isis, I whispered remembering. Remembered looking over my shoulder before I passed into the guards' compound. The mob were kindling fires in the library. They wanted to burn everything with their half truths and blunt endings. I felt no pity for them. Whatever their reasons. I knew this was wrong. I knew the Gods would punish them and me.

I had come here for safety, for hope but these questions made me feel like I was a perpetrator. Is this a punishment Lord Amun? This official was calm, given the mayhem unfolding outside, smug and imposing. Perhaps his men had the situation under control. Perhaps, but he was still talking about the horse!

Which market stall had it crashed into? What was the horse called? I wrinkled my brow. Did he actually say that or was I becoming delirious with the cold, with thirst and hunger. My damp clothes did not help. It had been as if the fires had burned the rain. The sudden shower had done nothing to slow the devastation. I pictured the library, flames beginning to take hold, a curiously cold magenta. What a fabulous finale to their rampage I thought bitterly. Why burn knowledge? But, maybe, may be his men had got there in time, stopped the mob before it was too late.

'The library?' I croaked.
'Is safe adoratrice,' he nodded.

'Praise Ra,' I blurted out in relief.

'Though it took the great majority of my men to disperse the mob and extinguish the fires. There is some minor damage to the outer courtyard but....'
He went on but I was not listening. Another thought had darkened my brief happiness. Another thought as clear and as deadly as Ramses the great's spear.
'Where are your men now Sir?'
He stopped, looked at me reprovingly, 'I'll ask the questions here. Now, what we need to know, first, is who ordered this, who guided the horse, who created this riot for I don't believe for one moment that it was an accident.' His voice was dark, accusing but I held his gaze defiantly.
'Where are your men?' I beseeched, for I knew. Of a sudden it was obvious what was going to happen, was likely happening right now.

The officer sighed. His expression one of anger, I thought he might lean over and slap me. Instead he raised his eyebrows quizzically at the man at the door.
'They are mostly still outside the compound Sir,' he replied, ' making sure that the city stays calm.'
I closed my eyes. Began a silent chant. Merciful Goddess let her be safe, merciful Goddess let her be safe, merciful...
'I need...we need to get a message to our Queen,' I almost shouted, 'the riot, the attempt to burn the library, it is a diversion, to keep you and your men busy whilst...' I struggled to finish, my emotions overspilling, 'the Queen, she is in danger.'
'Nonsense priestess, our Queen has the palace guard to protect her. I know your position is exalted,' he said with sarcasm, 'but I also know how you acquired it.'

Words I'd overheard back in Thebes, just before her visit, floated through my head. The key is to convince those close. That's all I had heard from behind a pillar in the darkened courtyard. I did not see who spoke them or to whom they spoke. But they now made
perfect sense.

'You don't understand, we must...'
'Stop this,' he barked banging his fist on the table,' I do not have to do your bidding.'

I seethed with frustration, felt tears in my eyes. Isis, please do not let her die.

'Now, are you going to co-operate? I have all night to wait for you to do so,'he said ominously.

***
Copyright Gabrielle Goldsmith 2013

The Temple Plot

The Temple Plot - fragments (was known as Under a Theban Sky)

Background

The story of...

Merytaset aka Usrera Ankhesenamun

(Beloved of Isis) aka (Powerful of Ra, whose life is in Amun)

Background of the piece

Merytaset was born on the edge of the Nile in reign of Ptolemy VIII (circa 140 BCE) as her Mother tended fields alone, the cord was around her neck and she was saved by a mysterious beautiful lady who appeared 'out of nowhere' to help. Merytaset's Mother always maintained her saviour was the Lady Isis herself. Hence M's childhood name.

Her Father, who by the time M is 5 has risen to being a diplomat for Pharaoh, 'dies' when he sent on a mission to Assyria and does not return. They are not destitute as they have their section of land to farm, and her Mother is by this time a dressmaker of repute that has caught the eye of Pharaoh's daughters. Over the next two years, M gets to know at a distance the female royal circle.

Life is considerably more tough though,and when her Mother Is given the great honour of her child being apprenticed at the age of 7 at the great temple at Thebes, she accepts.

The story begins 12 years later with M becoming the Great wife of Amun, the chief priestess of the temple on the morning of a visit of the Queen, Cleopatra III, who has identified herself with Isis. In the course of the visit, M hears some disturbing news about a plot to overthrow the Queen. A plot originating from inside the temple. She confides her information to the old high priest. But can she trust him. An attempt is made on the Queen's life but fails when M prevents her food from being poisoned. But. Unbeknown to her she was meant by the conspirators to do that as a bluff designed to give the Queen false security. The plot is much larger and involves temples throughout the land. The Queen leaves for Alexandria, waving away M's protests about her safety.

Weeks later, M makes her yearly pilgrimage to the tomb of her Mother in Alexandria. Whilst there, a seemingly innocent event at the market, a horse getting loose, is the catalyst for the plot to occur....

****

The horse, unbidden and riderless, came galloping through the market place, causing a ripple and then a rupture in the sea of people. They scattered to avoid its hooves. Like silk ripping I thought, stepping out of the animal's path and remembering. Remembering Boyalais holding the shimmering cloth tight, as Mother with deftness would tear it in two. Long ago. Bo..Ya...Lais. I rolled the syllables around my tongue as the horse wrecked havoc amongst the ordered stalls. Nubian for pretty young girl, Mother had given the maid this name for the girl would not or could not tell her what she was called.

I closed my eyes. The furore, the madness of the market dropped away. Mother, dressmaker to Pharaoh's daughters, working into the night in front of the hearth. The walls
of heat fading, flame turning blue, turning her head to a noise from the archway that led to the sleeping rooms. The noise me, dangerously curious, head peeping round the corner. 'Go to bed Merytaset' she would chide. But gently. Always gently.

Long after Ra began his night's journey, my Mother would work, set the candle aflame and work. Long after the Goddess Nuit began her watch over our blessed land, nothing would deter her. Especially if a Pharonic commission was due. Perched close to the dying embers, her hands moved at speed, 'these dresses are our fruit little one,' she would smile. I would think of Father's maxim when faced with a task for little reward. 'It's a long walk.' So it was, for although the Royal family were inevitably pleased with her work, she received scant profit.

I opened my eyes. A rather harassed looking man, flushed of face and beating away protests from the market sellers was trying to retrieve what I presumed was his horse.
The animal had scattered a table full of melon and crashed into a stall offering wine. It now appeared to be trying to eat the stock of a baker, much to his chagrin.

I had known for years that my current exalted position, though it ignited ignorance, was in all fact owing to my Mother's toil. This was one of many reasons why I made the pilgrimage from Thebes. I tried to travel unrecognised but I could not bring myself not to wear the robe of a priestess.

The horseman had recovered his charge and was now placating the stall holders. The fact he had opened his purse helped. I pulled my cloak closer and continued walking through the market. The cemetery was nearby. I carried the offering in my pocket to place at my Mother's tomb.

***
Copyright 2013 Gabrielle Goldsmith