And sometimes you blink, and the bowl turns into something else. Sometimes it turns into a puddle in the middle of the living room floor. Sometimes in turns into a frozen pond behind a small wooden hut overlooking the fjords. Sometimes it turns into a London telephone box. But whatever it turns into you are trapped. You are covering the same old ground, staring the same old fears in the black soulless eyes.
So the best thing to do is grab a camera and go searching for souls, hoping one of them will show you the small crack in the fish bowl, and maybe, just maybe, it will b big enough for you to make your escape .
I was half asleep as I heard the wood gently crackling in the fire
dreaming about the stories my grandfather used to tell me at bedtime
about the adventures he and his two best friends used to have while camping in the desert
telling each other stories and laughing in the good old times, in a century long gone
I opened my left eye as I smelt plastic and rubber burning
for a moment I thought I was 14 once again, back in the camp in Lebanon
where we burnt old tyres and our plastic toys - that we loved so dearly only a month ago
but suddenly felt no need for - to keep that little warmth escaping our bruised bones
I opened both of my eyes as the thick grey smoke came rolling through the windows
that I always leave open during the warm London summer,nights
letting in the fresh air and the lively sounds of a town 23 floors below
reminding me of everything I left in a world so far away, in a century long gone
I heard someone in the distance yell:Help! Water! Water!
and I thought I must be dreaming all this smoke and crackling fire
I was back underneath the rubber dinghy that had just capsized
with 79 people on board, 75 of whom were in the water for their first and last time
I leaped out of bed when I saw the fire flash underneath my bedroom door
I opened the door, fleeing for my life once again, leaving everything behind as I did years ago
I rushed from the flat and hit the stairs drowning in smoke, a clear memory of the bombs and fire
and people screaming, sirens waling, from a time long gone rushing through my head
The last in the line of survivors in my family,
this time I woke up to catch my death.
This is a story from a notebook full of started stories and semi-finished poems linked to that day, that I constantly carry around with me and none of which I seem to be able to finish. After long months I decided to post this excerpt here, just to put at least something from the little black notebook out there. As the walks, everything in the notebook is in remembrance of the people who perished during that night.
to quite a lot of these singer/songwriter evenings. This time I saw four friends, who if I got it right, are all studying songwriting at uni (now there is a course I would love to do). Nata (from Moldova of all places) started off the evening for us
and Conor Riley followed her.
Leah Bryant was the first act of the second half of the evening and the only one of the night I have seen before
And Richard Fairlie brought the evening to an end.