the patio door that was still open, Ali knew she must shut it – and fast, in case the blood hungry dog decided to return.
Entering the kitchen, Ali carefully, ever so carefully crept across to the patio door. Pulling it closed, securing the lock, she glanced into the garden, hoping to see Duke in a friendlier mood. Pulling away from the door, shocked by what she had just seen – hundreds and hundreds of bones, dripping with blood, strewn across the lawn, Ali shivered with fright. She was shocked, shocked to the core that their dog, their ever so friendly dog, could have done so foul a deed.
BANG. Duke pounded, struck the patio door with the full force of his body, his bloody teeth grinding the glass in a ferocious attempt to get some more bones. BANG. He smashed hard against the door, trying to get into the house. He had no intention of stopping.
BANG. Like a dog possessed, Duke repeatedly smashed into the door, trying to get some more juicy bones.
Pulling the curtain across the patio door, trying to erase from her mind the terrible change in their dog’s behaviour, Ali hoped the worst might be over. She hoped that the bones, the bones dripping wet with blood were from animals, and not from her family.
Deciding the give her aunt Breda a ring on the phone, to tell her about the terrible things that were happening, and to ask her for help, Ali picked up the handset and began dialling.
“BANG, the glass of the patio door suddenly shattered, and the dog – Duke – came flying through the air, into the kitchen. Pinning Ali to the floor, knocking the handset out of her hand, the dog snarled and growled viciously at her.
“Hello?” a voice on the other end of the handset said. “Can I help you?”
In an effort to protect herself from the crazy-mad dog, Ali pulled at the curtain with all of her might. Both curtain and pole came crashing to the floor. Using the curtain to protect her from the sharp, pointed teeth of the hound, Ali tried to defend herself as best she could.
Retaliating ferociously, having to intention of letting a curtain defeat it, the crazed dog drew the curtain up, around and over Ali.
Although it was incredibly dark beneath the curtain, Ali struggled against the weight of the material, trying to escape its deadly embrace.
A chink, a chink of light suddenly crept under the material. Pulling it back, Ali saw the sun; she saw the morning sun shining in through her bedroom window. The curtain was not a curtain at all; it was the quilt from her bed.
“It was another dream,” Ali said, smiling with relief. Looking out through her bedroom window, Ali cried tears of happiness on seeing the clear blue sky. Running into her parent’s room, Ali shouted with joy, “Good morning to you both, and what a wonderful morning it is to be alive...”
Yawning, wiping the sleep from out of their eyes, Ali’s mum and dad stared at their favourite daughter, even though she was that little bit bonkers.
“That’s our Ali,” they said, “ALI – BONKERS!” With that, Ali laughed and laughed and laughed.
Confused By The Night
I have absolutely no idea who I am. I am standing alone, completely alone in the centre of a room. I have no idea how I got here. All that I know is that something terrible is about to happen. I cannot explain it; I just KNOW that something terrible will soon happen.
Trying to put this feeling of forebode to the back of my mind, I inspect the room. It is not a particularly good hotel room (I have no idea how I know it is a hotel room), with only a bed, a tired wardrobe, a few pictures hanging on the magnolia painted walls, and a small television set perched precariously on top of an even smaller table.
Wandering over to the window, I draw back the curtains, staring onto the cityscape, far below. Cars are racing along the busy street, while throngs of people mill along the equally busy sidewalk. It is dark; the sky is as back as coal. Staring into the inky blackness, I try to see if there are any stars. I can see only the one. Gazing at it, I feel a strange empathy with that far-off stellar traveller. I might as well be that star for all I know about my situation and myself.
Switching on the television set, I wait for the image to appear. However, when it does, all that I see is an old western movie, almost obliterated by the weak, snowy reception. I turn the set off. Sitting on the side of the bed (its creaks under me), I notice a door at the far end of the room. Filled with curiosity as to what it conceals, I get up and begin to walk over. Before I am halfway across the room, the feelings of foreboding that I had tried to suppress return with a vengeance, sending me crashing to my knees, calling my God to spare me from the awful thing that is about to happen. In the silence of that room, I kneel in my confusion and angst waiting for the end, my end. I wait, I wait and I wait some more, but nothing happens. Once again, try to push the feelings of doom to the back of my mind, and continue.
Dragging myself up, I wipe the sweat from my worried brow. I swallow hard. My mouth is so dry. I need some water, but have no idea where the tap is located. The door, the door in the corner of the room – perhaps I can find some water behind that! I must find out what it conceals. Grabbing hold of the door handle, I turn it slowly, ever so slowly. Pushing the door carefully open, I see a bathroom, complete with two glass tumblers on a shelf above an old sink. I must get some water!
It is cool; the water is so cool and refreshing as it slips down my hot, parched throat. It feels so good. I need some more water. Refilling the glass three times, I drink my fill – it is wonderful.
After returning the glass to its holder, I stare at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. In the hard, fluorescent light, I look so old. Am I old? Am I this old? I do not feel old.
A car horn sounds somewhere outside, and two high-pitched voices begin arguing. Returning to the window, I open it and begin listening. However, despite hearing the voices quite clearly I have absolutely no idea what they are saying. Why are they are speaking in a language alien to me? After listening for several minutes I am still none the wiser as to what is being said. Losing interest, I open the window fully to see what else I might see. Looking down, I think how easily one might fall, and be gone forever.
Two voices, two people laughing as they walk past the door of my room bring my thoughts back with a jolt; no one will be falling out from any window tonight. I return to bed, which again complains as I sit upon it. I must think. I must try to work out who I am! I have to be someone! I must remember! What is my name?
The gloom, the terrible feelings of foreboding return yet again, assailing me with a renewed vengeance. I feel so small, like an ant that someone’s shoe is about to crush into oblivion without even knowing it. Then what, is that the end, or is it only the beginning? All of the religions of this world have told us, drummed into us that death is only the start – why then are we so afraid of it? I wonder, I wonder if that is all religion is, people simply trying to save our souls, or do they have another agenda, an agenda of worldly ways, of material possessions and – power?
This terrible feeling; how I wish it might go how I wish this painful cup spared me. I so wish it might go and never return!
Lying down on the bed, I pray that my troubled mind will soon relax enough to return my identity, so I can make some sense of who I am and why I am here. My breathing slows; my eyelids grow heavy and tired. The room, the speeding cars, the arguing people and the dangerously wide-open window fade from my consciousness.
I awake. Is it minutes or hours later? The room is so quite now I hear no sounds from the street below, no traffic, no talking – nothing. I am cold; I am cold from the breeze blowing in through the wide-open window. Half asleep/half awake I ramble across and shut it. Shivering, I return to my bed and close my eyes again.
Suddenly remembering all that I am, I open my eyes and cry out, “I am Jeremiah! I AM JEREMIAH!” I can remember everything. I can remember it all. I am Jeremiah Durges, on my way to Australia. The flight was overbooked, that is why I am here, in this hotel. I will be catching the next flight, tomorrow. Thank God, I have remembered. What an awful nigh
t…”
Fizzy Cherry Cola
I can imagine you thinking, ‘What’s so scary about ‘Fizzy Cherry Cola?’ To be truthful there is nothing scary about it, but having said that, please look carefully into the picture of the bottle before making your final assumptions…
Well, did you see anything? Did you see all those troubled souls trapped inside the bottle? Did you see the expressions on their poor, pitiful faces, knowing they have no hope of ever escaping it, that the only release they might hope for is that someone happens upon the bottle, and drinks them?
Mr Singe – Gupta – was an old man who had seen many changes over the course of his seventy-five years on this earth. When he was sixteen years of age, his family emigrated from India to the colder climes of England. Along with his parents, brothers, and sisters, Gupta began a new life in a county so different from the hot, tropical one he was used to, and so loved.
Snow; snow was one of the first things the notoriously fickle English weather hurled at the Singe family after their arrival one cold, dark, wet December day. The snow remained stubbornly on the ground until mid February. Gupta thought it might never melt. Nineteen sixty-three will always be remembered as the year of the big freeze, a time when the whole country came to a standstill.
As the
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