Postcards From Within By Michael J Phillips SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * * PUBLISHED BY: Michael J Phillips on Smashwords Postcards From Within Copyright © 2011 by Michael J Phillips Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. Holding Doors Wild China Saffir’s Tale The Book Holding Doors It had got too late for the Bars and Clubs now. In fact it was early morning, and sunrise was approaching. I made my way home through the City streets after another errant night of emptiness. I didn’t feel guilt at my behaviour; drinking, gambling, and smiling at the Eye Candy were all part of the criteria for any well respected wannabe playboy. I could always blame my waywardness on the bad company I was keeping anyway. The guys from work were alright, but after a few drinks they could get feisty to say the least. There had been occasions when I had to take a step back from the madness, and find myself a corner to wallow in. However, tonight I had been happy enough to indulge myself in their braggadocio, laughing at their tasteless jokes and insipid amusement. I needed to be one of the boys you see, I needed to forget everything and enjoy myself, however boorish I was required to be. That’s what men did when they were hurting wasn’t it? I’d seen it in the movies, but none of it made me feel any better, the chasm was still within me. As I walked home I got angry with myself again, because deep down I knew that it was my fault. Any pain or heartache I felt was ultimately my doing, because I had gotten lazy in love. I first met Ellen in the Summer of 2002. It was at the Big Weekend festival in the centre of the City. I had just finished watching Kinks front-man Ray Davies performing some new songs, and as I turned to leave I spotted her. She was leaning against a metal fence chatting with some friends, or at least I assumed they were. She was swallowed up by a large anorak, protecting her against the night’s rain. Her hair was locked away under her anorak hood, she held a cigarette in one hand whilst expressing herself animatedly with the other. Her face was of an olive complexion, and her lips cherry red. I remember how I hung around sheepishly, trying to catch her eye, and then she saw me and smiled. We got talking soon after that, it was always easy to talk to people at Concerts, you had no real barriers to break down because everyone was there for the same reason, the music. That made an easy starting point for conversation with any stranger. We began seeing each other, I never knew or felt anything like it before, I had fallen totally in love with her almost overnight. And that first kiss, I swear she could have shattered a winter sky with a single burning kiss from those beautiful lips. She made me feel so good, I felt like I could dance on volcanoes. But that was then. Now all I felt was sorrow, like I had been swallowed up by those very same volcanoes, and it was the worst feeling ever. I wondered through the suburbs of the City, the early morning air wrapping itself around my face. The numbness it brought didn’t change anything, and as the alcohol wore off the pain began to seep back into my body. Everyone was sleeping now, not a noise was being made at all, except by Milkmen, stray dogs, and me. The closer I got to home the less I wanted to be there, I knew she would be waiting for me. I knew she would have been crying all night, she cried most nights lately. I also knew I’d trade everything to have her near again, but it all seemed too late now. We were both wading through the flotsam. I couldn’t help but wonder how it all got like this, but then again maybe I knew all along? In all fairness I had known about him for a while. When I say him, I mean ‘the Other Man’ as they say, whoever they are. She had started behaving slightly differently. There were little things, like wearing different clothes to work, taking more time to get ready in the mornings. In fact she took more time to get ready for work than she did for a night out with me. But then nights out with me had become something of a rarity I suppose. My suspicions were pretty well calculated, but I chose to ignore it and just hoped it would all go away. But my enforced obliviousness didn’t stop the onset of the pain, the constant ache in the pit of my stomach. On bad days I would analyse everything and the more I thought about it the more I realised I’d stopped doing the little things and those little things played their part. Little things like starting and ending our day with a kiss, holding hands as we slept, little things like holding doors open for her and pulling chairs out for her in restaurants. I had forgotten how to do that, or was it more that I couldn’t be bothered anymore. And so the little things had a major starring role in the downfall of what was once such a beautiful thing. As home came into view the sun started to rise. My hand fumbled for the door-keys in my pocket. It was a pity they weren’t the keys to happier times, the keys to a better day in the past. It was all my fault though. I realised that I was responsible, or more to the point irresponsible. I hadn’t behaved like I should, I hadn’t behaved like I loved her, but I did. I loved her more than ever. If I didn’t love her I wouldn’t be feeling the pain. Yes, I loved her, and I knew I always would. Yet the betrayal was a stumbling block to all this, I still had moments when I imagined him touching her, kissing her, and ultimately making love to her. I hated everything when I had those moments. It tore me up inside, as if there were some sort of incendiary device in my stomach that had been detonated by his hand. Yes, it was the betrayal that was the issue. As I reached the front door the sun began to come up. The broken wind chimes hung in front of the door; they rang in time with the light sunny breeze. I gently put the key in the lock, entered, and then closed the door quietly behind me. The place was awash with silence, a silence of the awkward kind. The rooms all seemed so empty, they whole house seemed cold, it seemed so completely sad. I went upstairs to the bedroom. There was a ray of gentle sunlight coming through the bedroom blinds, its tender warmth lapping at Ellen’s face as she lay sleeping. She was hanging on to her pillow as if her life depended on it. I remember crying when she first told me about her indiscretion, and as her words spilled out, so the shards of deceit poured from her. They pierced my soul like broken glass. But now, in hindsight, it was probably my fault in the first place. I forgot the little things you see, like telling her I loved her at funny, inopportune moments, taking her to the movies, walking on cold wintery beaches and yes, holding doors and pulling out chairs in restaurants. She stirred and opened her eyes, ‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘Beating myself up in Bars and Nightclubs’, I pathetically replied. She held out her hand for mine. I weakly responded. I wondered if we could make this right again? She rubbed her eyes, ‘I’m so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, you must know that? If I have to spend the rest of my days saying sorry then I will‘. I shrugged my shoulders like a little schoolboy, stood up and left for the Kitchen. I began to make coffee, trying to figure out what to do, trying to figure out if we could ever be as we once were. I remembered how a friend once told me how I always managed to screw things up eventually. I was told I had a ruinous personality whatever the hell that was, that everything I touched turned to a perverse wreckage given time. But I really wasn’t the bad person in all this was I? It wasn’t me who had the affair, it wasn’t me relishing in the excitement of it all, whilst fighting off the accompanying deceit. For a second I wished I could go back into the City and carry on drinking, gambling, forgetting, drowning out the confusion and the pain of it all. I wished I was listening to vacuous laughter amid the hordes of revellers, but I wasn’t. I was here facing decisions, decisions on whether to rebuild something that once was good, or to walk away from the wreckage. As I stirred the coffee Ellen came into the kitchen. She was wrapped up in her night-gown, she looked tired, tired of the drama. The bad cop in me thought that she looked exhausted by guilt, the good cop thought she was drained by worry, and the thought that it may all be over between us. I hoped the good cop was right. She looked me straight in the eye, as if she was seeking my forgiveness, for me to grant her some divine absolution from it all. But I didn’t know if I would ever be ready to do that, I just didn’t know. We went to sit at opposite sides of the table, and as we went to do so I pulled out her chair for her. She smiled, took her seat, and then smiled at me as I took my seat, ‘Good night was it?’ she asked. ‘If you call losing £200 on Blackjack and drinking my way through several bottles of wine, then yes, it was a good night’. I didn’t want to see her next expression, but there was no stopping it, it was definitely coming my way. It was pity, pure pity for me. I had never felt more pathetic at that point. ‘It didn’t mean anything’, she offered, ‘I was lonely, even though you were always here. We stopped talking, we stopped communicating, there was a growing emptiness within us’. She was doing her best, I knew that. And I was just burying my head in the sand again. I decided to speak up, ‘I know, I realise that now’. She looked a bit taken aback at my response, I continued, ‘but it’s the forgiving that I find hard. I wish it was an easy thing for me to walk out of this, to leave behind all of the clothes I wore when I was with you, all of the photographs, and the memories’, her stare became intense, I continued, ‘I wish I could just steal away through that front door and stroll past those broken wind chimes out into the morning, and go and put myself on a bus, a train, even a plane to somewhere and anywhere.’ I felt the tears well up inside, but I couldn’t stop now, she began to cry also. I stood up and walked to the kitchen sink. I now had my back to her, but there was no point in trying to hide any emotion now. I carried on talking, I couldn’t stop, ‘do you think it would be that easy to leave?, never to kiss your lips again, never to share laughter with you, never to create new memories, do you think it would be that easy for me to just say goodbye to you here and now?, because even though my heart is breaking, I still love you, and as long as there is breath in my body I always will’. I heard her chair scrape on the floor as she got up. The next thing I knew she was holding me from behind, she placed her head between my shoulder blades. I could almost feel her tears burning through my shirt into my back, as if she were branding me with them. I didn’t resist, it felt like home, it felt like everything. She held me, and I knew it was more than a gesture, it was one of those little things, little things that were important. And it was then that I thought of the times we smiled, the special moments when we laughed at stupid things, the places we had been to together. And then I turned to face her, and fell into those beautiful eyes. The betrayal still nagged at me, could I ever put it behind me? I still wasn’t sure. I released her grip and went to the bedroom. As I entered, I noticed the empty suitcase on the top of the wardrobe. I glanced back at Ellen, and then the empty bed. I looked at her side all ruffled, and my side untouched. She was holding on tightly to the bedroom door, holding it half open, her countenance so lost. I kicked off my shoes and closed the bedroom blinds. Wild China The elderly woman over the road was painting her front door green. I thought it a bit stupid as it was trying to rain. But I admired her determination and obvious optimism that the rain wouldn’t come to much. She had carefully placed an old sheet on the pavement to protect it and had precariously perched a mug with a hot drink in it on the windowsill. She was known to the neighbours as a bit of a firebrand. ‘Never cross Mrs Watts!’ I was kindly warned when I first moved in. She seemed to have a doggedness in her manner as she went about her business. I thought of you as I watched her struggle with her paintbrush. It was so long since I had heard from you. I struggled to remember how long. I sat at the Kitchen table, whilst the Kettle boiled. I started slowly picking at the label on the coffee jar. I made some coffee and then sat and looked at the letter again. Your hand-writing hadn’t changed in all those years. But just how many years though? I caressed the French postmark on the envelope. My love for France had never died, and I had managed to return to Nice once since I last saw you. It was some five years ago. By remembering that fact, I surmised that it had obviously been five years and more since I saw you last. I stayed in the old Town near the Rue Alexandre Mari. I always loved Nice. I always loved the view from the Plane as it descended into ‘Aeroport Nice Cote D’Azur’. The blue, blue sea lapping at the golden strip of sand, the bohemian beauty of the city, wedged between the sea and the backdrop of the mountains, capped with a layer of snow at their peaks. It was strange how I never tried to find you whilst I was there. Was I scared of facing you again? Was I scared of admitting the way I had let you down? Was I ashamed of the manner in which I discarded you so contemptuously? I didn’t know. There was one thing I did know though. I knew I had to come back to Nice one more time. It was winter when I arrived, yet the days were still balmy, with a slight chill cooling the streets at night. My memory suddenly shut down and I returned to the letter. I sipped at my coffee and looked at it once again. Your English had improved none, but that made me chuckle to myself. The words in the letter seemed strange to me. It was as if you were in the Kitchen with me there and then, talking with that soft, soft voice. Your words spoke of life and how funny it could be. You spoke of your new found path as a Street Artist, creating and selling your paintings on the Promenade Des Anglais. You sounded happy in your descriptions. I remembered how you always loved Art. And now here you were, living your dream. I pictured you painting at the waterside in Villefranche, the sea occupying the shallow harbour with such serenity. At the end of each day, I envisioned you gently sipping a small glass of Pastis outside La Mere Germaine Restaurant. And I imagined the Waiter bringing you a warm Lobster salad, which you then slowly picked at. As I sat in my Kitchen I looked at the raindrops on the windows. Again, I tried to work out how many years it had been since I saw you last. I could see the elderly woman across the road stubbornly painting her door green. She now wore a yellow PVC sou’wester on her head to protect her. I guessed she had probably had a word with the rain clouds, warning them off with great ferocity. She had probably also given the weather man on TV a stern dressing down. I couldn’t help but think she might regret not sanding the door down and priming it first. Preparation was everything. At least that’s what my Mum had always said. And then I sighed loudly to myself. I still missed you. Why didn’t I try to find you that time? I read your words again, reading even harder between the lines, looking for any hint that you may want to see me again. But then, after the way I had treated you, how dare I expect that of you? My visit to Nice wasn’t easy, but I had managed to walk the side-streets. Through Rue Massena, past the little Cafe's and Boutiques, the Ice Cream Parlours and Designer shops, down the Rue De France. The air was filled with the coagulated aroma of Coffee, the sweet smell of Crepes, and gentle cigarette smoke. I passed a drunk man, dancing to some imaginary music. He was clearly seeking the price of another drink, and hoped his dancing would encourage passers-by to part with their hard earned Euros. I recall tossing a few coins into the Fedora hat, which lay at his feet, and I then walked back through the old Town and down onto the Harbour. My head was filled with the salubrious air of Quai Cassini, lined with the sea vessels of the rich, the famous, the notorious, and the dubious. I recall I seemed to walk with my head slightly lowered, not attempting to look around properly. Maybe I was scared of seeing you again. I knew deep down that I wanted to. But fear ran through me like a Lion through a jungle. How funny to think that the Lion ran out of breath, when I finally departed the Jewel of the Riviera on a night flight two days later. And now here you are, wrapped up in a blue envelope, stamped with the red ‘Par Avion’ on the front, putting the events of your happy life into a couple of pages of paper. All I had left to hold. That, and my memories. Thankfully for me, your words didn’t talk of any new love, of any new life-force that had managed to tame my Wild China. I felt both glad and sorry. I never wanted anyone to have you if I couldn’t. But then I was selfless enough to hope you found happiness. And yet, as hard as I read between the lines, I couldn’t tell if you had found a new love, a new passion, or not. In all honesty I fervently hoped not. But then your only real love was Art. And I knew you had found yourself in that. The rain outside got harder, almost in parallel with my thoughts for you. The Elderly woman across the road was determined to finish painting her door green. She now wore a complete set of yellow PVC waterproofs as she continued the up and down strokes with her paint-brush. She slapped the paint onto the door with all the panache of a clumsy mule. I would never dream of telling her that of course! If reputations were to be taken seriously, then I would have had much to fear should I have criticised her artistic bent. My mind drifted back to the letter again. I wondered what ever happened to us? How did we come to such a fractious end? And still I wondered how many years it had been since we were together. Deep down I think I knew. But it was as if the pain of losing you wouldn’t let me openly acknowledge exactly how long. I poured some more coffee. My mobile rang. It was a text message. I couldn’t bring myself to answer it. I gently stroked the envelope again. I looked at your name written elegantly in black ink at the bottom of the letter. Sweet Wild China. And I remembered. Holding your letter reminded me that I had never actually had such a letter before. But then, I had never met anyone like you before. Crazy, spirited, bohemian in the extreme, full of zest, and a Bon Viveur too. Your love of Jazz, and Blues music, mixed with your equal appreciation of good books. James Joyce, mixed with Jack Kerouac, and the poetry of Alan Ginsberg. I always laughed at your insistence that Kerouac based his ‘On The Road’ character ‘Sal Paradise’ on you. I asked myself how I first met you. My constant self questioning was now beginning to exhaust me. How could one letter totally drain me emotionally? Two pages of words probably written in a short time. But how long? Twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? An hour? A day? A week? It would certainly have taken me a month to even consider writing such a letter. And then another six to actually write it! But then that was the difference between my Wild China and I. I never could write 'sans souci'. My mobile phone rang again. Obviously somebody was keen to get hold of me. I chose to ignore it again and went to the bathroom to wash. I walked the stairs, onto the landing. I went to the bathroom and turned the taps. I could hear my phone ringing downstairs above the noise of the running water. I washed, and I washed, and I washed. It was as if I was rinsing myself through some cathartic process. As I dried myself off I thought of the letter yet again. A voice was screaming at the back of my head. I couldn’t make out the words though. Despite this, there was clearly some urgency in the voice. I became a little scared and decided to return to the Kitchen. I checked my phone again. There were now three messages and one missed call. Something inside me suggested that I didn’t check the messages. I thought of you Wild China. How you always answered my messages, and I always returned yours. But since that letter dropped through the door this morning something has changed. I became a little agitated and began to wander from room to room. I then decided to return upstairs. I wandered between the bedrooms. And then I felt myself drawn to something. I looked at the loft door from my stair-landing. I hadn’t been in there for some years. And I don’t know why, but here and now I was going to climb the loft ladder and have a look around it. I opened the loft door and pulled the loft ladders down towards me. I climbed them slowly, as if there was something terrifying, or maybe exciting, waiting for me. My thoughts of you were getting stronger my Wild China. As I entered the loft I could hear my phone ringing from downstairs, again, and again. I turned the light on. There in the corner stood a wooden chest covered in dust and cobwebs. I crawled across the loft flooring towards it. I tell you China, my heart was beating with the rhythm of a jumping Jazz band. I surreptitiously lifted the lid of the chest, as if scared that someone would catch me. I thought of the myth of Pandora’s Box, how the Greek myth stated it carried all the evils known to mankind like greed, vanity, slander, lying, envy and pining. Yet it also carried hope. Did this wooden chest carry hope? Or did it carry something quite the opposite? I peered inside the chest. It appeared empty except for some ripped up paper. I knew what it was immediately. As my phone continued to ring downstairs, I lifted the torn paper out and looked at it. It formed the jigsaw of my Passport, and the jigsaw of a return flight ticket to London Heathrow from Nice. I felt the tears well up. I started to shake as I wiped the first tear away. My throat had become so dry, drier than a Desert in its prime. I got up and turned to look at the opposite corner of the loft. There stood an easel, my easel in fact. Next to it a paint-box and brushes lay against the wall. Sat on the easel was a painting. I shook more as I walked over to it. Where were you now Wild China? Did you ever exist? The painting was of a man sat outside a restaurant. A dog lay faithfully at his feet. There was a coffee cup and a brandy glass on the table. The man appeared weary, defeated almost. He sat there staring out of the canvas at anyone who was willing to look at him. It was as if he was almost reaching out. But for what? I noticed a sign on the wall next to him. It said ‘La Mere Germaine Restaurant’. My trembling had subsided a little. My phone continued to ring. Ignoring it, I bent down and picked up the Paint-brushes. As I rose the ringing ceased. I lowered the easel and its accoutrements down through the loft. I then carried everything downstairs. I walked back to the kitchen, and began to set the easel up in a convenient spot. I opened my paint box and made sure I had some clean brushes. Preparation was everything. At least that’s what my Mum had always said. I picked up the milk bottle from the worktop, and placed it back in the fridge. I looked to the other side of the kitchen where I kept a moderate Wine rack. I carefully selected a bottle. It carried the unmistakeable Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape label. I was still trembling a little as I slowly uncorked it. I couldn’t explain to myself why my hands shook gently so. I poured myself a glass and looked through the window again. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. The elderly woman across the road had finished painting her door the colour green. Funnily enough, she had done a grand job despite the inclemency of the weather. The sun shone brightly onto the new paintwork. I then looked for the letter. It wasn’t where I left it. I hunted high and low but the letter had disappeared. I was momentarily filled with questioning and wonderment. I looked at the glass of wine. I slowly picked it up and took a sip. As my taste-buds savoured such discreet libation, I turned to look at the easel, and I began to paint. Saffir’s Tale It had been five long years since Saffir had seen her Mother. Five years of resentment, regret and downright stubbornness. It had been a stupid argument about something and nothing. But now enough had finally become enough. Saffir had decided to go home for Christmas, back to the village of Tyrwen. She had given herself a huge pat on the back at the thought of being the one to make the first move. Her Mother wouldn’t expect that. It would be a surprise, and that element of surprise excited Saffir even more. She hoped that they could put the past to bed and not just be Mother and Daughter, but become friends once again also. She packed the boot of her car with some presents and a case of clothing for herself. She brushed a layer of snow off the windscreen of her car, jumped in, and started it up. She then steered her car out of town and onto the motorway towards Tyrwen. The snow hadn’t relented for a couple of days now, but that didn’t stop her determination to see this through, to make her peace with her Mother. Luckily, as she left home, the roads seemed relatively clear. The Gritting lorries had been regularly doing their rounds, keeping the elements at bay. As evening began to fall she flicked the car headlights on, and the beam picked out the snowflakes as they hurried to hit the ground. It was going to be a slow trip, but it gave Saffir the chance to think about things, to think about home, to think about the past. As she took up her position on the slow moving highway, she recalled her childhood at Christmas time. She remembered the smell of the logs burning on the fire, the pine from the tree, and the smells emanating from the kitchen. She recalled her Father fixing the Christmas Wreath to the front door, and how he always came back into the room singing White Christmas after doing so. It was his personal Christmas ritual. A small tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she put that little memory back in its little box. He was long gone and she missed him so. The journey was becoming torturous as time passed. She checked her phone intermittently, but the signal became increasingly non-existent the further she progressed. She eventually gave up any hope of maintaining that line of communication for now. It didn’t matter, in fact it was quite refreshing not to have that particular monkey on her back for a while. Any calls would have only been about work, about some stupid meeting or totally pointless document she had to write. Her driving set itself on autopilot for the remainder of the drive as her thoughts lent themselves to her work, her life, her relationships, in fact all manner of things ran through her head. She stared ahead at the snowflakes as they collided with her car. It was as if they were trying to hypnotise her now. As each mile passed she continued her own assessment of her life so far. She felt like she was giving herself a one-to-one appraisal, much like the ones she endured in work every month. How had she been doing? How could she improve? What would she like to achieve? What SMART targets should she set herself? SMART targets? What a load of nonsense all that was. She always found Management speak quite amusing, but now she hated it, and all its stupid buzzwords, phrases and acronyms. What was this month’s managerial delight? Oh yes, ‘Blue Sky Thinking’. She looked up at the dark sky throwing its icy confetti at the ground and smiled to herself. Still, however hard she tried to resist, she couldn’t help but try and remind herself what SMART stood for. But she had to take a firm grip of her memory for that one. As she approached the exit road from the Motorway towards home she remembered it; S-Specific, M-Measurable, A-Achievable, R-Realistic, and T-Time-related. She afforded herself a little grin at her powers of recall, but it really wasn’t important, nowhere near as important as she once felt it was. She knew that was the world she chose to get involved in, maybe that was part of the reason why she fell out with her Mother, because she wanted a career. She was sure it was part of the reason. Now she didn’t know if she wanted that world at all. She was getting closer, along the snow covered trail, closer to home. She turned the radio on for company. It was playing one of her Mother’s favourite Christmas songs. Saffir remembered it being played every Christmas when she was a child. The memory warmed her up inside. She couldn’t wait to get home now. Yes, it was all going to be fine when she got there. She hoped. She was now about five miles from home. The snow hadn’t abated any, but she knew she was only some yards away from Flamingo Lane. Flamingo Lane was a five mile long lane framed by hedgerows, and led to the little hamlet of Tyrwen. Saffir worried that the lane may prove problematic for her car in this weather. As she turned into the lane she had her fears confirmed. It was pretty much impassable for vehicles. She had no choice, she was going to have to abandon the car and walk the rest of the trip. The snow slid off the car boot as Saffir lifted its lid. She reached in for her suitcase and the presents she had lovingly packed. The lid was then slammed firmly shut and she began the walk through the snowy lane. The snowflakes gently spat in her face as she trudged on. She thought back to the argument that had sent her away from Tyrwen five years previously. It had seemed silly and mostly forgotten she thought. But something still resonated within her, the cross words still loitered within her conscience. And that’s why it had always been difficult for her Mother and her to make it up. The problem was that they were both carved from the same piece of Welsh Slate, and that made things difficult at times. Her legs grew heavy with the snow now, as did her suitcase. The weather grew worse and started to impair her vision. Saffir began to worry that maybe she was lost, she became disorientated as the cold night bit into her. An inner panic gripped her as she feared what she would do if she was lost. Flamingo Lane was her playground as a child. Summers were long and she would play for hours in the fields. In the present it was all so different, Flamingo Lane seemed to go on for ever now. It had turned from the sun-kissed fairground of nature she knew as a child, into an arctic white featureless desert. She tried to take her mind off the battle on her hands by thinking what she would say to her Mother when she got there. She had harboured one awful thought, one arcane fear that she had been trying to supress. But no matter how she tried, this one fear was still there, knocking at the doors of her heart and mind. Maybe her Mother would not welcome her? As she considered that awful thought she slipped and fell. She tried to get back up from the white icy blanket beneath her. She struggled as she had hurt her ankle. She started to cry a little, the tears froze against her cheek. She wished she was home now, more than ever. Saffir managed to regain her stance and limped on down the lane. The pain was biting at her ankle with no consideration for her plight. And then she sensed the smoke up ahead, and through the falling snow she could see home. The windows were lit up and staring at her, smoke poured from the chimney. She began to cry again, her fear battled inside with her fervent hope that everything could and would be ok. She would only know for sure once she got to that front door ahead. Saffir limped up to the pathway. The Christmas Wreath was attached to the front door as always. For a second she wished it had been put there by her Father. How she wished he was still there, in front of the fire singing White Christmas. How she wished she could return to being a child, and be able to revel in all its innocence. And then the door opened. Her Mother stood there in the opening. She hadn’t changed at all. Those caring eyes, the entrance to her very soul, emitted much needed warmth and love. But Saffir didn’t know whether to approach her or not, for it was now the fear was at its strongest. It was now that it could manifest itself, that fear within her heart. She didn’t know what she would do if she was turned away. Her Mother held out her arms. Saffir dropped her suitcase and the bag of presents and hobbled up to her. Her Mothers embrace was of such comfort, and all of Saffir’s concerns disappeared. They embraced for a long moment, and then Saffir spoke, “I was so afraid” Her Mother tightened her grip on her Daughter, “There is no need to be afraid” Saffir felt warmth again, “I felt so afraid, I have been so lost, rootless, I have been drifting for so long now Mother” Saffir began to weep, her mother gently whispered a soliloquy into her ear, “Saffir, there is no need to be afraid”, she held her Daughter tight and looked up at the sky, “for out there are ships made by God. And the ships sailors cast out their lines, singing as they toil. And then pull the lost souls aboard” They went into the house, her Mother closed the door behind them. Yes, Saffir had come home for Christmas, home for good. The Book He spotted her on the corner of Custom House Street. It was almost certainly the last thing he expected to happen that day. But it did, and there she was. She stood at its junction with Mill Lane, an apparition that seemed almost embalmed in nonchalance. He brushed the raindrops from his brow. The rain hadn’t let up that day and a magenta sky had started to fall. He noticed her from across the busy main road and watched her for a moment as she perused the human circus that unfolded in front of her. As the traffic sped by, the road hissed more and more at everyone using it. He had spent the afternoon drinking and eating with old friends from College. After one drink too many, he had decided to make his way home through Butetown to the City Centre. From there he had planned to take a bus home, but that had all changed now, now that he had seen her. Yes, this beautiful Stranger had inadvertently hijacked that particular plan for a moment. He wasn’t sure if she was waiting for someone or not. Maybe she was lost? Maybe she had been stood up by a pre-arranged date? Whatever her situation, she didn’t seem overly bothered. He made his way across the busy road and then slowed his pace down as he neared her. He felt himself totally drawn to her. Long, flowing, raven coloured hair shrouded her shoulders. She wore a black leather jacket, blue jeans and a pair of white sneakers. She turned his way, and as he got closer she smiled at him. It was a smile like no other, a smile so open, so forthcoming, as if she had known him for years. As he got closer she gently spoke, ‘Hello’. His tongue immediately loosened, although his mouth was dry; ‘Err…..yes, hello. Are you ok? I mean, you look ok, but I thought for a moment you may be lost? She giggled quietly to herself, ‘Aren’t we all lost in some way?’ The poignant irony wasn’t lost on him. She reached out for his hand and gently shook it, her smile growing ever wider. It was a smile that both excited and scared him. As the endorphins rushed around his head, her eyes started to burn straight into his. Flames seemed to dance behind them as she stared back at him, her eyes searching his very soul, but for what he didn’t know. ‘Rosa’ she whispered as she gently released his hand. ‘I’m sorry?’ he quizzed. ‘Rosa…my name’. He stumbled briefly, trying to release himself from the trance, ‘Oh right…yes…I’m Joe’. He found her beauty more and more alluring with each glance of her eyes. She shook her head gently in acknowledgment, ‘Nice to meet you Joe’. ‘We’ve met before haven’t we?’ he asked. He then thought that question must have sounded like the cheapest cheap shot ever uttered. Rosa shrugged coyly, ‘Maybe?’ He was determined not to let go, despite his clumsy approach, ‘I was in Mermaid Quay earlier today…perhaps there?’ ‘No’, she replied, ‘I only arrived in Cardiff an hour ago’. The rain suddenly got heavier. She grabbed an umbrella from her handbag and offered him shelter. She flashed a smile again. The craziness of the situation didn’t evade him. He then suggested they take proper refuge from the rain somewhere. She looked at his face and could see he was someone she could trust, despite the infancy of their relationship. She agreed to the offer, ‘Why not. I’ve arrived too late to get to where I want to be now anyway’ she replied. ‘Haven’t we all?’ he retorted with a grin. They then walked back down St. Mary Street seeking shelter. They came to an Irish Bar on the corner of Caroline Street. The large throng of people inside was testament to the Premises’ popularity. She found a chair in the corner and he shortly returned from the Bar with a couple of drinks, ‘So what brings you to Cardiff’ he enquired. She seemed to sadden briefly as she bowed her head, ‘I came to say goodbye to a friend’. ‘Oh right’ he replied, Rosa continued talking, ‘but now I think it might have been a waste of time’ His intrigue stoked itself up a notch, ‘I see, may I ask why?’ She looked him in the eye, ‘Do you believe in fate Joe?’ ‘Not really – I don’t think many of us males do’ ‘You really believe that Joe?’ ‘I think I do’ He began to question his answers as she took another sip of her drink. She looked him in the eye again, ‘Joe, look behind you. At the bar are two men talking” He craned his neck and saw two young men talking animatedly about something and anything, ‘I see them’ he replied. He looked back at her whilst she continued looking at the young men over his shoulder, ‘So young. What age would you say?’ ‘Oh I am useless with guessing ages! I don’t know. Twenty?’ ‘Well one of them has a chance to be Someone in ten years time, and the other?....he’s got a chance to be 30’ Joe nodded and sipped at his drink, ‘You obviously believe in fate?’ he asked. ‘Me? - I don’t know anymore’. Her words trailed off with a tinge of sadness. Her mysticism intrigued him. He wanted to know more about her and he was willing to sit in that spot all night listening to her. Joe may not have known that much about her, but he knew he wanted to see her the day after, and the day after that. In fact he wanted to be with her every day for the rest of his life. He wanted to hear her every breath, every second of every day. He had never felt such desire. He was well aware of the emotion of lust, what male wasn’t? But this was something more. There was a brief silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Rosa sipped her drink, ‘Are you from Cardiff originally?’ she asked. ‘Yes, although they say there are not many Cardiffians actually living in Cardiff these days’ She laughed at that, he afforded himself a grin also. Her eyes flickered and that smile flew his way again. He noticed both of the glasses on the table were almost empty. He glanced through the window and could see the rain hadn’t abated. In fact it was getting worse, ‘Can I get you another drink? It looks as if we are going to need an Ark to get out of here’ ‘Sorry?’ she quizzed. Joe smiled, ‘An Ark…as in Noah?’ She grinned back at him. He felt his condition getting worse. He walked to the bar, not exactly sure what was happening to him. He had never felt it before, and he didn’t want the feeling to go away. As he waited to be served at the bar, he could hear the sound of thunder. He wondered if it was it coming from outside the Pub or within him? Suddenly there was an almighty bang. The whole Bar was thrown into darkness. One woman screamed, and one or two other people were heard to swear loudly. The whole room was thrown into a brief chaos. The barman’s shout could be heard to all, ‘Don’t panic, just give me a minute!’ Within far less time the emergency lighting came on. Joe looked around to the beautiful stranger, and was shocked to see she had gone. He ran to the table. The smell of her perfume still lingered, but that was all. He then noticed a book left on the table where they had been sat. He ran to the door and out into the rain. The passers-by continued to snake their way around the pavements, some looking like they were trying to dodge each solitary rain drop. The rain fell like a blanket of gentle sorrow on his visage. He looked in each and every direction but it was useless. He was overwhelmed by the sodden throng of humanity before him. He trudged back into the Pub, walked to the table and picked up the book. It had a black cover with a red silk book mark. The bookmark was inserted about two-thirds of the way through the book. He felt impelled to open the book at that page, then gently closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he did so.. The marked page revealed a short story, almost fairy tale like. It was hand written by someone of a young age. It told the story of a young girl, a lonely young girl, who had been given a very special gift by someone. It was a gift meant to bring her all the luck that dreams could bring. But as the story progressed it became apparent that if anything, the gift brought her no luck at all. And then one day she gave the gift away to a passing Gypsy. He was bemused that the story had no real end, but it had temporarily taken his mind off the fact that Rosa had disappeared in such a way. Joe brought himself back into the now, closed the book, and returned to the Bar with it. He bought himself a large Brandy, and then gently sipped at it. As he did so he reflected on what had gone before that evening. He wondered whether she had left the book on purpose, He hadn’t noticed it when they sat together, but then, such was her magnetic beauty, he wouldn’t have noticed if the whole world was ablaze around him. Such was the fire she had lit inside him he would never have noticed that. Joe read the story again. He finished his drink and left for home, taking the book with him. It had been a long day, culminating in a strangely beautiful, yet mystifying night. And his heart showed the signs of aching just that little bit. It ached as it does when you first fall in love, and miss the person that love is meant for. He went to bed as soon as he got home. Once there he tried to sleep but couldn’t. The following morning found him awake in bed listening to the sound of men collecting Refuse in the street outside. The noise didn’t matter, all he could hear was her voice. It was like a key opening up his very soul. He had to find her again, and all he had was that book to help him. He had planned to visit the Central Indoor Market in Town that day. He loved the ambience of its Victorian structure, lively with Flower stalls, Bakeries, fresh Fish and Meat, and Coffee shops. His ritual was always a late morning breakfast, followed by a bit of shopping. He enjoyed nothing more than rifling through the racks of the Record and CD shop on the Upper Floor. But today was different, for Rosa was firmly entrenched in his mind, and was making fair in- roads into his soul too. So much so, he still had the book in his grip at his side. He felt obliged to look after it, it wasn’t his after all, no, it was hers, and he would take care of it. He finished his breakfast and wandered out of the Market onto the Hayes. Last night’s rain had disappeared, much like she had. The street was ever busy with Saturday shoppers, however none of them were her, he knew she was nowhere near him. He wandered aimlessly through the City streets. The sun had now decided to put in a full appearance. Whether it would stay for the duration of the day was another matter. He didn’t care either way, although he enjoyed the sun as it gently stroked his face. He imagined Rosa’s hand had the same soft, warm touch, but would he ever find out for real? He walked aimlessly for what seemed like hours until eventually he found himself a fair way from the City Centre and on the Quayside. The view over Cardiff Bay was as lovely as ever. He could see the Penarth Headland in the distance. Water Taxi’s came to and fro in front of him. There were various shapes and sizes of boats anchored in the Moorings. Seagulls swooped above him looking for the slightest crumb of food. None of them looked hungry to him though. The fine weather had busied the streets with seekers of all sorts. People seeking friends or relaxation, tourists seeking sights, people seeking good times, but none noticed him. None of them noticed that he was seeking too. It was at that moment Joe saw something. It was on a mooring to the left, near the footpath which linked the Quayside to the Marina. He noticed an odd looking vessel. Odd in shape, and certainly odd in age compared to the other vessels in the Bay. Joe began the short walk over to the strange looking boat. As he neared, the noise of the seagulls seemed to subside, even though they were all around him. He was now stood aside the boat. Its Ark-like shape charmed him. The hull was worn by the elements of many years at sea it seemed. There appeared to be no-one on board. He noted the name of the boat, ‘Mano Del Destino’. He regretted never learning Spanish, as he regretted never learning any language but English. Time had never afforded him that luxury he thought, but then time had a nasty habit of doing things like that to everyone. He was awoken from his thoughts by a sudden tap on the shoulder. He turned quickly to see her, his Rosa. She flashed that smile again. Her hair as free flowing as it was the night before, the dancing flames behind her eyes still present. ‘You found me’ He felt like a love-sick teenager, ‘I did’ ‘Obviously you were meant to’ ‘I wanted to find you, why did you leave?’ Rosa cupped her hand gently around his chin, ‘you need to ask yourself why I arrived in the first place?’ ‘I don’t know, all I know is that I am glad you did’. She noticed the book in his hand, ‘And you looked after the book too. Did you look inside it?’ He nodded. He felt confusion dancing all over through his head. She now moved a little closer to him, ‘I was given that book as a child you know?’. He began to hand the book to her, but she hesitated to take it, ‘I was told it was a lucky book – I was told that if I kept the book safe. It would bring me luck and love. But it wasn’t so, it became quite the opposite’ Joe interjected, ‘And then you decided to give it away, like the story inside the book’ ‘That’s right’ she replied. He looked puzzled, ‘Why me though?’ She continued to stroke his face, ‘I didn’t give the book to you directly. I left it on the table for anyone or no-one to pick up – you made the choice’. ‘I did – but you surely knew I would pick it up’ Her face broke into another one of those smiles, ‘I knew you’d pick it up, but I couldn’t be sure you’d keep it’ He held the book to his chest. She moved closer still, ‘So, do you believe in fate Joe?’ She took his hand and led him up the gangplank onto the boat. By nightfall they were drifting many miles away. *** About the author Michael J Phillips was born in Cardiff in 1963. Having left school in 1980 with a small handful of (dubiously earned!) qualifications, he worked at various jobs before settling in IT. Throughout those years he also worked as a Semi Professional Musician and Songwriter, playing guitar in various South Wales Bands and making several CD's. Michael also dabbled with Creative Writing throughout this time until he decided hang up his plectrum in 2003. More recently, Michael has become more involved in Writing and this book is his first e-publication. Michael is currently working on his first novel also. He lives in Penarth Marina, Cardiff and is married to Karen and has two children from his previous marriage, Lauren 17, and Georgia 11. Contact: Facebook http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/Michael-J-Phillips/110487725691784 Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/Mphillips1963 E Mail Mike@michaeljphillips.co.uk Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MichaelJPhillips