Caravan - A Novel from Cumbria

At the start of 2014, New Writing Cumbria put a call out for writers across the County to be involved in a novel with a difference. It is a collaboration where each writer had 72 hours to write their chapter. It's finished, it's entertaining and each chapter is set in a part of Cumbria that you may be quite familiar with. The novel Caravan can be downloaded for free. I wrote a chapter and enjoyed the challenge of not knowing what I was to be presented with by the previous writers and twisting the story... so here it is, enjoy

http://www.newwritingcumbria.org.uk/caravan/

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Chat - a short story by Nisha P Postlethwaite

‘Time scares me,’ said the woman to her cat. ‘I’m losing the people I love, and I’m only twenty-eight.’

The cat raised his head from his deep sleep on the bed and slowly blinked at the woman with his sea-green eyes. 

The woman blinked back at him. ‘Life frightens me,’ she said. ‘What would you do if you were in my situation? I know you’re a cat, but you seem to have it sorted.’

The cat glanced at the bedroom window; the breeze had dislodged several leaves from the tree tops and they gently danced in the sky.

The woman followed the cat’s gaze to the window. ‘You’d go out, wouldn’t you?’ Her voice sounded panicked. ‘Out there into that world?’ 

The cat turned his head and licked his coat with his spiky pink tongue.

‘Yes,’ she surmised, ‘You’d go out and face the day - face life again, and take it all in your stride and you wouldn't look back.’ The cat stretched his paws right out in front of him and one grazed the woman’s knee.

‘It's not that easy - I wish I was as calm as you,’ she said. ‘Instead I’m a stupid scaredy-cat. I am terrified of my own shadow, I'm terrified of living – I'm terrified of what could happen, and of losing it all again.’

The cat rolled onto his back and showed off his strip-striped belly; he placed his paws in the air and exposing his multi-coloured toes. They looked like pink and black coffee beans. The woman stroked his furry belly and said to the cat, ‘You’re telling me to relax and to stop over-thinking things.’ She sighed to herself.

The cat rolled onto his side and stared right at her.

‘I know you’re right,’ said the woman. ‘You’re always right. I need to enjoy the present moment and stop worrying about the future.’

The cat shut his eyes and went back to sleep. He hadn't said anything at all.

 Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

Twin – a short story by Nisha P Postlethwaite

They were two halves of one, yet neither knew what their other one thought. Nourished by a single disc down separate lines they floated side-by-side, rolling like synchronised swimmers in their mother’s skin.

Soon the day came to be expelled from the flesh hold. As cords were cut, each Twin reached for the other’s hand - not just for comfort - but to protest against the world.

As the Twins grew, they were inseparable and indistinguishable. They finished each other’s sentences, mirrored expressions, paired tantrums, laughed in sync and matched accidents. The Twins flourished in a secret place with invisible doors and were an impermeable enigma. 

Soon came school, and as cruel as children can be, they finally infiltrated the Twinship by pitting the Twins against each other. Soon each Twin came to measure their achievements and failings against their Twin and jealously took hold.  

In their teens the Twins tore each other down in private; in public they ridiculed each other. Each Twin wanted to be known as their own, but only better than their Twin. Mistrust and bitterness rotted down the Twinship - the damage irreparable.

By the time the Twins were adults, they lived a continent apart, both were desperately unhappy, their lives incomplete, grieving one another but too ashamed to reach out.

You can waste away a life wanting what someone else has got, and sometimes what they actually have is nothing.

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Suitcase - a Short Story

There was a room in her house with a large oak door. The door had a key that she rarely turned. Behind the door was a suitcase that she never unpacked. The suitcase was scuffed and had seen much better days.

There was a pair of trousers in the suitcase she could not pull past her knees. In the trouser pocket was a torn cinema ticket from their very first date. That date blew into a whirlwind and blossomed into love. That love aged and declined into forgotten fervour.

There was a silver frame in the suitcase, tarnished with time. In the frame was a photo of a vivacious young woman. The woman smiled with her eyes and laughed from the heart. She was bare of responsibility and wore invincible youth. 

There was a large brown envelope in the suitcase that she had sealed with a lick. The envelope contained letters written before people forgot how to write. The words on the letters captured every feeling there was. Those feelings were forgotten as everyone left.

There was a well-worn jumper in the suitcase she had knitted herself. The jumper still smelled of his skin - safe, reliable, familiar. Many a time she found those traits irritating, but if she could turn back time, she would take it all back.

There was a journal in the suitcase bursting with thought. She wrote in that journal her ideas and expectations. Yet the future passed her and she was standing still. It was only then she realised that time did not wait.  

In her house was a suitcase that she never unpacked. It was a relic that reminded her of everything lost. One day she decided the room was too good to waste with old baggage. So she took out the suitcase and put it out with the waste.

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Struggle - a short story

She found herself at the bottom of a hill before a flight of steep steps carved in the rock. She couldn't remember how she’d got there. ‘Walk with me,’ said a male voice. She hadn’t realised there was anyone next to her. The man was staring at the flat-bottomed clouds, they billowed on top and carpeted the sky. He placed his foot on a step.

‘I can’t come with you,’ she said. ‘I’m not a good person.’

‘I doubt that,’ he replied, climbing the first step.

She hesitated and considered the arduous climb ahead. ‘I've had terrible thoughts … it’s too awful.’

‘We’ve all had wicked thoughts.’ He turned to look at her. ‘It’s whether we act on them that count.’

She decided to climb the steps with him. ‘But it’s not that simple…’ she struggled to find the right words. ‘I’ve had angry, bitter thoughts. I’ve wrongly judged people. I’ve not always been honest with others or myself. Now it’s too late.’

He gently tapped her arm. His touch was like the breeze. ‘The very fact you recognise it means you are a good person. You are not defined by your past.’ He glanced back down the steps before he smiled at her. ‘Who you are now is all that matters.’

She saw they were high above a lake that dazzled like a sheet of glass in the sunlight. She couldn’t understand how they had climbed so high in such a short space of time. She realised there were only a few steps left ahead of them. I’m frightened, she thought.

‘Frightened?’ he said. ‘Don’t be. You’re stronger than you think. You know what’s right, or you wouldn’t be here.’

As they reached the top of the hill, she noticed the serene silence all around them; she could only hear her heart beating gently in her chest. She turned to him. ‘If you knew the terrible things I’ve thought about, you’d never forgive me.’

He shook his head. ‘Only you know your thoughts. Let them go,’ he said. ‘Let it go. You are free.’      

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Man Who Could See Through Skin

He sat within the whispering grasses by the ragged edge of the lake, crouched down as if wounded, out of sight but not hiding - not in the way that he hid from life. He watched the water - not blue, green or grey but a translucent union of all three - wash over the smooth stones and complete the gaps, before sliding back across the long stretch. It was an effortless retreat.

If only he could glide through life. Instead it was volatile and fractured. He climbed the peaks and sank with the lows, but lately the lows had come more often until they flowed into a continuous bottom-line.   

  

No-one knew what he could do. Not really. He had tried to speak of it, perhaps so cryptically, no-one understood what he meant. How could he explain, really? 

How could he say that just by brushing against any of them, he could see right through their skin - across organs, down veins, between layers of tissue, over private thoughts, hopes and intentions – even those not fully realised by their holders. Perhaps he had not explained it clearly at all, but he didn’t want them thinking he was unhinged or a freak.

Among people he felt like an intruder trampling on secrets and tarnishing dreams as he tread on their souls. In time, it became harder for him to look anyone in the eye in case they saw his growing shame. He was tired of watching everything he said in case he gave something - not his right to give - away.  

So he decided to avoid human contact as much as possible, never shaking a hand, touching the edge of a crowd, offering a kiss, or embracing the ones he longed to hold. This lack of human touch only made him withdraw deeper into himself but what choice did he have?

He concluded everything human was mapped along lines, it was obvious, over-thought and calculated, but nature had secrets he couldn't permeate, such as how rivers carved up the land or how buds and leaves reached for the sky and unfolded before his eyes. He only felt true wonder when sat in nature.

Why couldn’t she accept that? Why couldn’t she understand? Instead, she said she couldn’t condone his apathy for others, his numbness to life, lack of warmth and connection; it was as simple as that to her. She started to cry when she said she longed to reach him and pull him out of the darkness, but she didn’t know how to. So it had to end.

Tears rolled over his cheeks and burnt his skin. The fragile walls of his world came crashing down as he always knew they would. She whispered to him to let it go - whatever it was that consumed him. She reached for him, he flinched, but she still took him in her arms. Her warmth made him delirious, and his legs buckled with the weight of his sorrow. 

Still, he didn’t hug her back, or try to explain. He thought she whispered something else, but the words lodged in her throat. As she left, he knew he would never see her again.   

He felt crippled in the grasses but he took solace in the gentle movement of the water. His mind flitted back. How could he have told her what he felt through her skin? How could he say inside her was something else, slowly unfurling and diligently forming - part-her and part-him? How could he say there was another poor soul that could see through his mother’s skin?  

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Girl who Couldn’t Dream

There were wild horses on the hill, assorted coloured oblongs punctuating the flat green slope. They looked like something straight out of dream, she thought, although she had never experienced one.

Her nights were matt black and uneventful, her slumber long and lifeless, but she always rose with a heavy head, as if she hadn’t slept at all. Where did her thoughts go as she slept? As soon as her head touched the pillow, it was like she lost herself.  She wondered if her mind left her body because she was so unaware of everything as she lay in her bed.

Her waking life was very different, her thoughts drifted through the day, time gently melting away as she glided through each experience. She would flit from one thought to the next, like a bee amongst flowers. Concentration didn’t come easy when she was awake.

There were wild horses on the hill – just a moment ago. Her eyes ran up and down the green and across the edges. The horses had gone. Had she imagined them?

Maybe she experienced things the wrong way round. Maybe she lived in a dream.

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite

Please don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Tales of Finndragon Kindle Countdown Tour

Richie Earl is a self-published author of young adult fantasy fiction. Welcome to his blog tour, with a fantastic discount giveaway for his novels at the end of his guest blog ...

       My name is Richie Earl and I’m the author of the Tales of Finndragon, young adult fantasy series. I’d like to thank Nisha for hosting this leg of my Kindle Countdown Tour. I hope that some of her readers might be want to take advantage of the discounted prices. I hope you enjoy the short excerpt which follows this brief synopsis.

       Finndragon's Curse:

       “Your castle, kingdom and everything in it shall sink into the earth and be set upon by monsters and demons until the end of time, and never be seen again!”

       The Legend of Finndragon’s Curse is an original and unique fantasy adventure, which will appeal primarily to older children and teens, but also adult readers who like a bit of escapism. It is the story of three ordinary children, Emma, Megan, Scott and their pet dog Bones in their quest to find their father, who has been missing for nearly a year.

       The story is based on an ancient Welsh legend which has been kept alive by bedtime stories for countless generations. The two sisters and their brother unravel the riddle of an ancient scroll. This helps them find the gateway that leads to a 6^th century Welsh kingdom in search of their dad. The scroll states that anyone who stays in the kingdom for more than a year can never leave. The journey through the gateway is a mini-adventure in itself; involving finding their way through a maze of caves, and ends with them entering the magnificent medieval Castell y Mynydd.

       In this extract, Emma, Megan and Scott have only just arrived at the castle.

       Emma beckoned them both to one of the windows and they all looked through the narrow slit. They were all once again speechless.

       They were looking out from a high window, with the ground about fifty feet below. There were lots of people in ragged, medieval clothing going about their business. Two men were pulling a handcart laden with a bulging cloth sack. Another was chasing a small piglet, who kept evading his would be catcher by running in and out of his bow legs. High on the castle walls were a small number of armour clad sentries, keeping a vigilant watch.

       Many others hurried to and fro across the cobbled courtyard, seemingly too busy to stop and talk. Considering the number of people below, there was an eerie silence. There were some sounds that reached their window, such as a piglet’s squeal and the rattle of wooden wheels on cobblestone, but not much else.

       Within an instant that all changed as a loud, ear piercing klaxon sounded from somewhere within the castle. Everyone below left what they were doing and ran towards the tall stone buildings surrounding the courtyard.

       As the people entered their dwellings, there was the sound of heavy doors slamming shut and large bolts being pushed into place.

       The castle walls were heaving with soldiers. All wearing chain mail, protective clothing consisting of small metal rings linked together, they were holding large, heavy swords and long sharp spears, while others held bows already primed with arrows. Some of the soldiers faced away from the castle while as many again faced inwards from the battlements.

Emma, Megan, Scott and Bones peered from their vantage point.

       Suddenly they all heard a noise like none they’d heard before. It started quietly, but within moments it was terrifyingly loud and sounded like the beating of drums. Then they saw the source of the noise.

      A swarm of winged creatures twice the size of a man descended from the red sky, circled the castle and attacked from all directions at the same time. Their wing span was at least twice the creatures’ height. Two small legs dangled from each and two powerful, muscular arms sprouted from long, thin torsos. They had a pair of piercing green eyes set high in their bony heads, no visible nose and a beak-like mouth. Their ears seemed to be just small holes in the sides of their heads and their skin was brown and reptilian in nature.

      The fearsome creatures set upon some stragglers in the courtyard, battering them with huge wooden clubs. The unfortunate victims hurtling great distances through the air before hitting the ground with a bone-shattering judder.

      The archers, who missed their targets more often than not, were being attacked from all sides by demons that flew straight at them, swatting away with their clubs. Their armour clad comrades were trying to stave off attackers in order to let the archers do their jobs. Many of the archers were knocked off the ramparts to almost certain death below.

       The whole attack lasted no more than ninety seconds, before the demons retreated as quickly as they’d arrived. Emma was trembling as she turned to look at Megan and Scott, her look of terror mirrored in their faces.

       “Oh my God, those men didn’t have a chance. Those creatures were so quick. They must have killed hundreds!”

       Nobody answered, but they reluctantly returned their gaze to the carnage below, where they could see the full extent of the slaughter. Countless bodies lay at the foot of the high castle walls, tended to by the women of the castle. The surviving soldiers remained at their posts, searching the sky for a second wave of attackers.

       None came, and after a minute or so another klaxon sounded the all clear. Now only the sentries remained on the ramparts, as the other soldiers went to help care for the wounded and dying below.

Emma, Megan, Scott and Bones shrank back into the middle of the room, trying to put some distance between themselves and the events they had witnessed.

       “We should go straight home, NOW!” Megan cried. “What chance do we have of staying alive in this place, let alone of finding Dad, if he’s still alive, that is?”

       “Don’t talk like that, Meg. Of course he’s alive and we can’t give up that easily; besides, we don’t know how to get back.”

       They all thought about that last statement, its implications gradually sinking in. Emma’s mind was working overtime now. They’d only planned up until the point which they had now reached. How on Earth could they have planned beyond? Okay they had an outline of a plan: get here, find Dad, and get home. All their preparation had gone into getting here, now they had to think on their feet and think quickly too.

Kindle Countdown Promotion - up to 67% discount. The Legend of Finndragon's Curse is on offer 15th-21st April.
Return to Finndragon's Den is on offer 21st-28th April.

Available to purchase from:

Amazon - for kindle

The Legend of Finndragon's Curse:   http://viewBook.at/FinndragonsCurse

Return to Finndragon's Den:              http://viewBook.at/ReturntoFinndragonsDen

Lulu Publishing - paperback:          http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/finndragon

Links

One Thousand Worlds in One Thousand Words blog:           http://onethousandworlds.blogspot.co.uk/

Tales of Finndragon Facebook Page:              https://www.facebook.com/finndragonscurse

Goodreads Author Page:        https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6523833.Richie_Earl

Twitter (@finndragons):         https://twitter.com/finndragons

Book Trailer:               http://youtu.be/gXeh-pzIHSI

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What Do Writers Dream Of?

I’m lying inside our van, horizontal but not laid straight, listening to the world wake up. The darkness has various shades due to a jagged strip of stormy light seeping through a break in the curtain. 

As the night's excesses wear off, my head throbs relentlessly; my mouth’s bone dry no matter how much water I sip. My mind races on.

Normality picks up a pace outside but I try to ignore the muffled sounds and any thought of thoughts in case they string together into meaning. Reality is still slanted and slurred inside the metal can.

I am physically shattered, but real rest escapes me, instead there’s shattered sleep sliced with shards of fragmented memories: fraught thoughts, blurred lines, snippets of broken conversation and mismatched words. Time slowly ticks by and I cannot help reflect on everything past.

My eyes flicker open and I’m faced with drops of condensation slowly edging down the inside of the glass. I blow out bursts of frosty vapour while my warm legs twitch relentlessly under the duvet.  

As my mind slides in and out of consciousness, it’s hard to pick apart what is real or false, or if I'm actually sleep.  

What do writers dream of? A voice inside my head asks.

I answer carefully. When asleep, not a lot. Our sleep is scattered, our minds overly-active. We churn conversations, memories and aspirations over (and over) in our heads. Our thoughts are too furious for uninterrupted rest.

What do writers dream of? The voice asks again. Don’t they dream?

I open my eyes. 

Yes we dream. We dream more than most, but usually when we’re awake.  

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

On twitter I'm  @nppostlethwaite
Don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

Free copy of The First Sense eBook - for a Limited Period

Author N P Postlethwaite is offering a free copy of her fiction eBook The First Sense - until midday (GMT) on Wednesday 2nd April 2014 as an EPUB file for e-book readers . 

The First Sense novel is Rated 5 out of 5 by readers on Amazon Kindle. Read more reviews of the novel here.

The First Sense is set in the future in a beautiful new British city called Lakes City that sprawls across what is now Cumbria. The story twists and turns around three people with extraordinary abilities; Eiko uncovers secrets from shadows, smells memories, and reads between life’s lines. Café owner Thorsen, alleviates his customers’ mental afflictions with his mysterious culinary creations, and Zach gate-crashes others' private thoughts for his self-gratification. However, all three characters struggle to understand their abilities, and as their stories unfold and lives intertwine, their mysteries unravel with devastating consequences. 

For a free EPUB copy  of 'The First Sense' sign up to the author's mailing list quoting 'free novel' in the Message Box. A copy of the novel will be delivered to your email inbox by Thursday 3rd April 2014. Your email address will never be shared with a third party. 

If you enjoy The First Sense eBook, please don't forget to review it on one of the retailer sites listed here and tell your friends and family about the novel. 

To find out more about The First Sense novel and author Nisha P Postlethwaite visit her website.

On twitter she is @nppostlethwaite
Don't forget to like The First Sense on Facebook 

The Return - A Poem

Did you wait until the earth was dry 

So the sun would warm our tears?

Did you slip away in the light of spring 

So we couldn’t see you leave?

I feel you drift away in the gentle breeze 

As all our lives stop still

And as you lay back down upon the ground

I climb high upon a hill

Your shadow falls across each step I pass 

The lake reflects the world like glass

Birds circle and cry beneath my feet

What a desolate but perfect place to sleep 

Your life touches mine and then I see 

That there is much of you in me 

I glance back down to mourn the view 

It’s not my time to climb as high as you

I know it’s time for you to go your way

And you’re leaving me in this glorious day

And so I weep goodbye and I wish you well

One day we’ll meet again upon this fell

Nisha P Postlethwaite is author of 'The First Sense' fiction eBook based in the Lake District and Cumbria, available from several online retailers. To find out more visit www.nppostlethwaite.com

An Unscrupulous Character Writes his Own Reference

Zach Coombes 

My name is Zach. I'm a key character in The First Sense novel, and I'm not a nice guy. 

I am untrustworthy, manipulative, insincere, narcissistic, unreliable, materialistic and lazy, and certainly the most interesting character you'll ever meet.  If you’re a woman you despise me but secretly you want to date me, and if you’re a man you condemn me but you actually want to be me.

If you’re read The First Sense and you think I’m ashamed of my actions, well, you couldn't be more wrong.  I can make a maudlin plea to excuse my behaviour about all that went wrong in my life, how I had poor role models growing up and several damaging experiences, but I won't insult your intelligence. The truth is, there is no excuse for my behaviour and who I am. 

The fact is, I like me. 

If I want to, I can be a nice guy - I know how to play that game if I have to, but I have to ask you, what is so wrong about not wanting to do the right thing? 

I know most of you do the right thing because you think you have to, but secretly, you think about doing the wrong thing and you know you'd enjoy it, but you haven’t got the guts to see it through. 

You see, I hear all your deepest, darkest thoughts and believe me, some of what you think makes me a saint in comparison. Yes, I've heard everything and you know what? We are not so different.    

More facts about Zach Coombes 

The First Sense eBook available from several online retailers. To find out more visit

www.nppostlethwaite.com

Darkness Disintegrating: Part Two of a Strange Story

 Click here for Part One

I emptied the bloody water from the sink and dressed. I had arrived with literally nothing and had to comb my hair with my battered fingers. The left side of my scalp was lacerated and swollen, and my jaw creaked, but my discomfort was dulled by my flourishing hope. 

I searched the kitchen cupboards and found a large box of tea, coffee beans, brown sugar, damson jam, rice, barley and lentils. There were packets of dried fruit, oatcakes and chocolate biscuits, as well as bags of flour and several tins of vegetables and fish. 

I made a mug of black coffee, sat at the table and carefully ate some oatcakes with the damson jam. My mind drifted back to the stranger in the rain; I must have looked terrified although I felt strangely calm. The stranger asked me few questions but handed me a lifeline - I could stay at their unused cottage in the fells that belonged to their recently deceased Uncle. 

As we drove, I could hardly speak, instead I stared at my swelling reflection in the window and the tears tracking lines through my blood-stained face. The stranger said I could stay in the cottage as long as I needed and to get my life back on track.

After I ate, I explored my new home. Downstairs towards the back of the cottage was a small room with a single armchair, fireplace, basket of kindle and a good stock of seasoned logs. There was a radio on a shelf by a half-empty bottle of sherry and pile of books. The room had a large window with a cushioned window seat and I could see myself sitting there for hours.

There was more in the house than I needed and out there was spring. There would be wild garlic in the woods, along with chickweed, borage and burdock. As the seasons changed, I was sure to find nuts, berries and wild mushrooms. I could survive.  

I slowly made my way upstairs and found two rooms and a small bathroom. The smaller room was filled with boxes and junk, and the larger room had a bed in the middle piled with clothes, jackets and socks. The stranger had said I could use what I wanted, so I carefully pulled off my blood-stained sweater and chose a thick grey jumper and some long wool socks. 

I put on a jacket and then quickly put took it off again. Soon, but not yet, I would venture outside. Soon, when I had mentally processed, accepted and filed away recent events into a locked place that no-one - not even I -  could find. The bruises and cuts would heal quickly, but the damage within would take more time, then I could enjoy the spring and immerse myself in the days as they grew and edged into summer. 

No one would find me, I was sure of that. No one would ever know what I'd left behind. I just had to forget everything that happened. I would change my name, make up a different past and learn every single detail in case I needed to go back out there again. I’d alter my personality, even change my favourite films, taste in music and food. Yes, no-one would find me, certainly not Mo. I could relax. 

My thoughts flickered back dangerously to when Mo had violently grabbed me and punched me over and over again, like I was a sack of sand. I thought - like many times before - that it was the end, but as my face slammed into the jagged stone wall, I realised it was the last time I’d be on the receiving end of such unfounded rage. 

I felt my knees buckle, and as consciousness almost slipped from my grasp, I became of a strength - a strength so deeply rooted within the past that I'd forgotten it existed because I'd buried it for so long. Although the strength was just a glimmer, it was enough, and I pulled and pulled on it until I unraveled the light from my core. The light grew bigger and brighter until I felt like I could explode. I saw Mo’s eyes grow wide and flash with fear as the seemingly impossible happened: Mo shot off me and hovered several feet in the air as if held by a huge, invisible hand. My insides were so hot that I wrenched away my eyes, but as I did, Mo dropped down - down into the cold murky water of the tarn. 

I watched in silence as Mo splashed and thrashed around, cried out and choked. It seemed like minutes but could have only been seconds before the menacing water dragged Mo deep into it's tangled dark liquid. 

As the light left me, I found my voice. ‘You should have learnt to swim you bastard,’ I whispered before I left. 

Nisha P Postlethwaite is the author of The First Sense eBook available from several online retailers. To find out more visit

www.nppostlethwaite.com

Darkness Disintegrating: Part One of A Strange Story

I woke up punching the air in an unfamiliar room; my skin damp with cold sweat. Relief washed over me when I remembered I was truly alone. 

The long, eerie shadows that had flickered in the moonlight and terrified me until exhaustion took over were gone; instead jewels of sunlight danced across the cracked grey walls and white light tinged with spring’s gold, streamed through a window with several broken panes. 

I knew the fractured light would heal my broken spirit, and although the day was cool, it was hopeful.

I pushed off a pile of scratchy blankets and shook winter’s pain from my aching bones. I could hear birdsong from the treetops and although I couldn’t see much, I was certain winter’s silence – that had mercilessly screamed through me for so long - was finally broken. 

I realised I wouldn't be pulled under the surface of life by darkness and I could breathe again. 

There was the promise of a new beginning. 

Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up from the creaking red sofa where I’d slept a lifetime, and placed my feet onto the cold slate floor. I forced myself up onto my legs but I was unsteady, so I kept a hand on the wall until I could balance. 

I carefully walked towards the window to find the panes of glass covered in grime. I cleaned an unbroken pane with the edge of my sleeve and revealed fine spider silk on the outside of the glass that glittered with dew drops. I pressed my face to the glass and gasped through the gossamer; the budding verdant spring had finally burst through the hard winter. There were fresh new leaves on the branches and the dewy grass gently shook with life. The first flowers of spring blinked open in the sunlight; snowdrops punctuated the grass and a violet riot of crocuses peppered the land beyond. 

I blinked back tears and harshly reminded myself there would be no more crying. In the corner of the garden I saw two mature trees with gnarly branches like those of fruit trees - probably apple or pear - and the thought of blossom followed by fruit made me smile. 

Smiling hurt my face, not least because it had been a long time since I’d smiled at anything. To the left of the garden, butterflies and bumblebees danced across a hedgerow of field maple hawthorn and blackthorn. There was woodland in view, carpeted with blue and white flowers and lush green foliage. The dry stone wall around the cottage stood like a black defence against ‘the unimaginable’ in the darkness, but it was actually powdered with green moss and tiny yellow buds on stalks. 

I recalled a long track at the back of the cottage that wound its way more than two miles down the slope, but then it was nearly a mile to the next village. There was not a human around, but all around the cottage there was new life, as I got used to mine - death of the old ways. I had left the darkness behind but to get my new life in order, I needed to properly cleanse away the old one.

I walked into an adjacent room - a kitchen that had a heavy wooden table against a wall and a single chair with a brown cushion. The rectangular, ceramic sink only had a cold water tap, so I pulled a large pan from the shelf, filled it with water and placed it on the gas stove. I found a shoe box containing burn ointment, crepe bandages, aspirin, various plasters, a bottle of cough syrup and safety pins. I filled the sink with the heated water and stripped off, marginally warmed by the sunlight streaming through the window. 

I soaked two large rags in the warm water and washed as best I could, dabbing at the blackening bruises and tending to the bloody wounds on my legs and arms. I bandaged the largest gashes on my knees and elbows, and put plasters over the deep cuts on my face. As I soaked and wrung out the rags, the water in the sink changed through several shades of pink until it turned a murky red. 

It will be the last time I’ll see this, I told myself, the very last time. 

Click here for Part Two

Nisha P Postlethwaite is the author of The First Sense eBook available from several online retailers. To find out more visit

www.nppostlethwaite.com