The Silver Locket by Irena Szirtes

   The lines defining her once well ordered life had tangled into scribble. Belongings tumbled or strayed. Curtains languished undrawn. Towered magazines tottered over coffee cups, curled photographs and misplaced mail. Even the sofa sank into retirement, too smooth or too creased like a well-worn saddle. She hadn't always been alone, but now there was no one to cook for or fuss over, to nurture or please; no one made demands, no one needed her. She lounged in her nightgown all day long without hearing a word about idleness; she missed lunch and snacked on junk, with no jibes about her figure.  No one missed her when she went to bed at eight, or lay quietly waiting if she stayed up until midnight.   

       “If I want to do nothing, I will”, she murmured, stepping over yesterday's chip paper toward the bureau. Her husband’s accusations still needled inside her. She took scant notice of them now, though she did feel compelled to defend herself, something she rarely did when he was alive. She hadn't had breakfast, but took a chocolate just because she could.  Life was dark, yet a glorious jumble: could it ever unravel again?

        In morning ritual, she crossed to her sole oasis of order, an obsessively neat drawer. She opened it, as usual, to gaze at her locket. Solid silver, it floated on dark velvet like a water-washed pebble in   moonlight. It smiled, as it did on her neck years ago, when he teased it with his fingers. He was still man then, and young. She smiled her secret smile, remembering those locket fingering nights: astounding memories for the timid, awkward young girl she once was! When she first met him, bolder girls would feign friendship with his sister, flirt shamelessly, scheme to get a date. They were stunned when the girl they labelled “Little Miss No-go-Granny-fanny,” was the one he finally pursued. How riveting he had been! She wondered if her face had aged as much as his, before the end came. Surely not! He had died too young, and she was barely sixty. Surely it was a mature, but not elderly face people saw, on her brief forays to the library or chip-shop.

    Her thoughts were interrupted by a second, completely unexpected smile.  The debris of depression was all around, but she smiled. She smiled at a sudden pin-prick of lightness, an unfamiliar echo of barely remembered well-being. She smiled because her musings had failed to usher in the all-too-familiar black fog. The fog was thinner, grey rather than black, and memories seemed slightly displaced, almost as if they belonged to a different self.                              

       Yes, she had loved him. Their roots had been tightly tangled. She would have defended him with the tenacity of a she-wolf, even when frustration was raging, roaring inside. But he had been high maintenance.  He needed her-well-too much. And he always made a point of telling her how very much she needed him, too. She thought she should feel rather guilty about that smile. Yesterday she would have, but not today, because something faint, yet intriguing, was beginning to beckon from beyond the greying fog.

   “Maybe, just maybe- he wouldn't have believed it-not in a million years-but could I REALLY be ok without him? It’s like I might get to-well- be content on my own!”

   This outrageous idea, flickering and fragile as part-blown candle flames, was trying to entice her from beyond the fog.  Excitement sparked briefly in her gut. Should she take on the grey and begin stepping through? Could she really do it? Did she even want to? The fog could be blackest night, but it was familiar, and had kept her well-hidden. Tight as his grave, it held him with her always, still trying to meld her identity into his. Unsure what life might look like beyond, without him for ever, she stalled. Today she would continue to live without rules, without routine. Motivation might be stirring in its sleep, but doing as she pleased, twelve months on, was still uncharted territory. Disorganised felt sweet and subversive. And grey, after all, was better than black.

A Day To Remember by Adam Rutter

Alex and Christina stayed in the same coach. Christina sat down next to him. They both slept in the same sleeping car – in separate berths. Alex woke up at eight in the morning. The clouds and fir forest blocked out most of the daylight, confusing Alex into thinking that it was still night time. There was a knock on the door. No answer. The door slid open, rattling. Alex gasped – his eyes barely opened.

‘Wakey wakey,’ said Christina.

‘Where's the fire,’ asked Alex.

‘What?’

‘What you’re doing waking me up in the middle of the night?’

‘I think you’ll find it’s not night time.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I’ve got dressed.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos it’s morning.’

‘No it ain't.’

‘Since you don’t believe me, hold the drape up, and you’ll see daylight coming in.’

Alex held up the bottom of the drape. He saw the trees sliding past. He let go of the drape, and looked at Christina, worried. She was barely visible in the dark.

Shoe Lover by Val Pedrick

for Louise

If love were an old shoe

Comfy and worn

Would it crave something new

Smart or sexy, to adorn

World weary feet

Yearning to be indiscreet?

 

Would spirits rise in stilettos

Peep-toes’ secret thoughts reveal

High boots kick away old woes

Sling-backs show a clean heel

Strappy sandals strut the beat

In city late-night-clubbing heat?

 

If love were a new shoe

Shiny and bright

Would it carry you through

Dark days into the light

Let you walk on air

Without a care?

 

Could love be; racy running shoes

A perfect pas-de-deux in ballet pumps

Husky seductive suede sneaker blues

Playful pink-wellie-booted puddle-jumps –

Shod in bejewelled mules, would your heart flip-flop

If love were new shoes -from a ‘designer’ shop?

(May 2006) 

Blowing up a Snowstorm by Adam Rutter

Among the Rocky Mountains of Alberta in Canada, a long passenger train wound through wooded valleys, turning precariously round tight bends. The train crossed a steel frame viaduct, spanning a deep gorge. The snow blizzard caused poor visibility, making it impossible for the driver to see railway signals ahead. This forced the driver to slow down. Even going at thirty miles an hour, snowflakes struck the cabin window. As the train zigzagged between snow-capped peaks, the border of British Columbia was crossed. Through a tunnel, the passengers endured a quarter of an hour of darkness. After emerging from the other side, the snowy landscape was too bright to look at. The train stopped. A wall of snow blocked a railway cutting. The snow was so deep, it was impossible to see beyond it. There were four hundred passengers on board. Most had come from Montreal. Some literally jumped on board along parts of the line in Ontario because there were two rural stations without a platform. The majority were traveling to Vancouver. But their journey was cut short by severe weather conditions. They were many miles from the nearest town. Snowflakes drifted in the wind. The wind was heard howling above the noise of the engine. Snow drifts streaked across the carriage windows. The passengers were alone in this cold remote landscape. In the fourteenth and fifteenth carriages closest to the engine were students traveling to Vancouver, to study at university. A number of them sat round nearly every table in these two carriages, whereas only six remaining had three. One had two. Christina sat on the inside seat; her head leaning against the window, looking solemnly at snow drifting past the coniferous covered slope. The faint sound of music emanating from her earbuds was audible to the person sitting on the other side of the gangway. She had glossy black hair that covered her right arm, while the other part hung over her left shoulder. Her jumper was as dark as her eyes; a sleeve almost covering her hand. Christina had turned eighteen. She lived in Quebec, and this was the first time she had travelled to a remote corner of Canada since she left high school. Sat opposite was a young man. His name was Alex. He was 21, from Newfoundland. His short black hair was gelled. He wore black jeans and a grey tee shirt. His thumbs were tapping on the screen on his iPhone, texting his mother about the holdup on the line. For the first time since Alex began the epic journey, he took his eyes off the screen, looked at Christina, and smiled. She grimaced. His face dropped, still looking at her while she was gazing out through the window. His eyes shifted between the screen and Christina. Her eyes flashed at him.

‘What,’ she demanded.

‘Nothing,’ said Alex, trying to feign bewilderment.

‘What!’

‘Nothin’!’

‘Well stop staring at me then.’

‘I’m not staring at you.’

‘You are.’

Meandering Thoughts on Saint Valentine’s Day 2021 by Elizabeth Obadina ... HTW on the theme of 'love'

What about love? What to write?

Floundering, St Valentine’s Day dawned bright

And brought with it unexpected insight.

Sunday Worship[i] on the radio spoke to me something quite new

That whilst Jesus taught ‘love’ was what Christians must do,

Its opposite isn’t hate. There’s another point of view.

The opposite to love, said the speaker … and I pricked up one ear,

The cause of all prejudice, neglect; great hurt far and near

Is not hate. Hate’s not love’s flipside. No … love’s opposite is fear.

After that programme I got a call from a friend

And we talked of a marriage that had come to an end

Of a man fearing his true self was one none could love, nor comprehend.

 

So, spider-like he wove a web of lies and deceit

Held together by shame, hiding acts so discreet

That his wife and children ne’er heard that other drumbeat

 

Until its crescendo, like a tsunami rumbling in,  

Crashed through the marriage with confessions of sin.

And his wife’s trust was shattered, but his children still loved him.

 

Their love and his family’s, guided them through

Though they’re living apart, they’re beginning anew,

Avoiding hurt, shame and fear; avoiding hullabaloo.

 

Then I talked with another friend about this Valentine’s Day

Remembering her father who just last year passed away

And the love of our parents, always felt, always with us to stay.

 

And just as we were parting she suddenly said, “‘It’s a Sin’[ii]! The programme I mean.

Have you seen it? Have you seen Imari[iii]?” Whom we’d watched as a teen

Work his way from youth theatre to the national thespian scene.

 

So as this Valentine’s Day ended, in twenty, twenty-one

I watched ‘It’s a Sin’ and was transported back to when the AIDS pandemic had begun.

When fear seeped into lives o’er the world, and into mine, when my children were young.

 

And I remembered how in Lagos I feared for my lovely gay hairdresser and the people he knew.

And I feared my sons would wriggle, be snipped by barbers’ shears and get AIDS so I let their hair grow.

And I feared buying bad blood one dark, nightmare night for our meguard whose skull was macheted clean through.

 

After a while pandemic palava died down

Though HIV spread, there were treatments around

And people showed love to those HIV-stricken; put away masks and gowns.

 

Until twenty fourteen[iv] when …

In Nigeria, a country beset by strife and division,

Where basic necessities are wanting in provision,

A populist president found a wheeze to unite all religions.

 

He united Nigerians by stoking fear of gay men

Who had lived and been let live but were now condemned

To hide, risk stoning , risk prison and risk too, the lives of their friends.

 

The Anglican archbishops put love to one side.

The Islamist North turned on ancient yan daudu[v] they’d long lived beside

And 98 per cent of people thought gays shouldn’t survive.

 

Bishops and terrorists, tele-evangelists too

Poured their poisonous preaching into a virulent stew

Of hatred kept boiling by the fears of a few.

 

So, my meandering through love on this Valentine’s Day

Found me wondering why those preaching love have just platitudes to say

Which people nod along to yet go on their way

 

To cast the first stone at people they know not, whom they yet fear

Forgetting the command Jesus, whether teacher or prophet, had asked them to hear:

“Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” Don’t fear.

---

[i] Sunday Worship Facets of Love BBC Radio 4 Sunday 14^th

[ii] It’s A Sin Channel 4 4-part mini-series 2021

[iii] Imari Douglas, Wolverhampton born actor who plays Roscoe Babatunde in It’s A Sin

[iv] 2014 Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act (SSMPA) signed into law by President Goodluck Johnson having been passed with overwhelming cross-party support by the Nigerian legislature. It criminalises homosexuality and proscribes 14 year prison sentences, or death by stoning in northern areas subject to Sharia Law, for being homosexual and provides sentences for people supporting or promoting homosexuals. “Expressions of affection between two people of the same sex” become illegal. The Act was an ‘open sesame’ moment for vigilante and police attacks on suspected homosexuals and although arrests have been reported under the act, most arrested were released after the payment of large bribes or bail and in 2019 one of the most notorious Lagos trials was dismissed by the judge for lack of prosecution evidence.

[v] Yan Daudu – communities of muslim homosexuals and transvestites which grew up along the ancient trans Saharan trade and slave routes of northern Nigeria. Most yan daudu are poor, illiterate and harassed. Those who have survived earn their living nowadays as food sellers and in the sex trade, often as go-betweens for female prostitutes.   

Foolish Valentine by Elizabeth Obadina

In the Hightown Writers Workshop we often begin our meetings with a 'word maze' exercise.  In this particular meeting we had to make what we would from the words:  slushy, precipice, delectable, cloud and juicy  

Foolish Valentine

Delectable Delilah was what Jonas had always called Deidre, the buxom barmaid of the Crown and Anchor where Jenny and Jonas met up each evening after work. Its cosy half timbered inglenooks and two roaring fires provided shelter these dismal February evenings: shelter from the grey clouds, the grey slush and the grey buildings which lowered like granite precipices on both sides of the street. The cheerful pub also provided shelter from the juicy gossip mill of the office.

Jenny had recruited Jonas as her assistant to ease her workload as her department grew from strength to strength. She wanted her Man Friday and he had become all that - and more.

Tonight was 14^th February, the day for lovers. Jonas had ‘magicked’ a bouquet of red roses for Jenny as they sat down for their evening drink and Jenny felt an unfamiliar frisson of anticipation. She was flattered, a little grateful and a little surprised, but not unprepared. In her case was a little something for Jonas. She reached for it but as she bent forward she caught an unmistakable look of love exchange between Delectable Delilah and Jonas.

No fool like an old fool thought Jenny and left the little something where it lay. No wonder Jonas always insisted she left for home first … to avoid gossip he said.

No wonder …

3^rd February 2015

 

Valentine – a history of social economics by Geoffrey Speechly

   

Photo: Liz Obadina

It was the 14^th of Fevrier 486 AD in the Massif Central of France, a region mountainous and rich in rivers and streams. In its very heart lay two ridges of steep hills, known to the locals as the Tines for their similarity to the tines of the eating forks which had just come into fashion as civilisation or more properly urbanisation crept into the light of day. Between them ran a pure stream, almost a river, serving all the needs of the Society of the Mountains, nearly forty people, men, women and children, both Franks and Celts.