#Robin is dark and Weed is light text

[chasing-faith-and-fate]

Moon 24

[fraener]

3/10/23

the days have been getting incrementally longer. im having some kind of allergic reaction to something in my house, i think. i texted ian today. i dont think hell respond, but i dont think i really mind too much. i can feel flashes of that spring still imprinted in the light and the movement of my heart and the sound of robins and goldfinches. i cut my hair a little strange, but ive been feeling stranger. im finding where my heart settles with h slowly. theres so much in me questioning and probing and posing different things- are there really so many different kinds of love? is it really ok to feel this way and stay in the relationship? i feel exhausted and lonely again. such is the way of winter. but it feels good to not be hurt by my companion, it feels good to be seen and loved tenderly and to be respected. ive been hurt by feeling overlooked and underestimated and misunderstood lately, too. the redcurrant is blooming, the smell like lemon balm and raspberries thick in the air. i wonder about my heart, though. its been a long time since i laughed for real. its been a long time since i felt much of anything other anger or sorrow. i feel myself trying to come back to the garden of my life, to tend and pull the weeds and sow new seeds. the sunlight is yellow and warm. the birds are singing in the mornings, the clouds are rolling through in rhythm thick and dark and charming with occasional thunderclaps and rain. i feel very lonely. el is back in town but ive only seen her once, briefly. she was blushing and i was too. it was sort of awkward and tense in the room. im pacing circles in my heart around ian, though. im really so in love with that snapshot of sensation i had that spring two years ago. the heat, the dark green and thick air of my apartment, the blinding sun the afternoon we met. the purr of his car in the dark, the way he carried me to bed, drinking cold infused lemon balm and rose and mint tea, the feeling of his hair in my fingers, the lilt and reed of his voice, nasally. part of my heart frozen in those moments. wish my heart would come back to me. my heart and i know he isnt it- isnt all, but he acts as the stepping stone back to there. in the same way simon is my sweet stepping stone and i his, we step on each other all the time. i spoke with him on the phone the other day and like always no time had passed. i love him and hate him. we pretend not to string each other on but i can hear it every time we talk, the way we fit together exists in a bigger pattern than just the physical or this place in time. i think the thing im missing is beauty. the city is so beautiful. everything ian gave me, even the emotional welts, was so beautiful. i think i want someone to make me crazy again because the states of dysregulation are states of release. it makes sense for me. i want to be violently disarmed by the mountains again, i want to be caught off guard and driven to tears by a stormy inlet, i want to my kissed over and over by the wind and rain. i want to feel the mud between my feet and eat the earth on the back of a nettle leaf. i know hes imaginary, my ian. like the dead he has become mythological and monolithic inside of me. wondrous how we can create someone over and over, their fiction becomes as real as anyone else, after departure or death. i think i need to do some digging about why i dont want to see h. i might just be tired and need some time to myself from him. i wonder my heart goes in and out of the romance with him, its strange. i felt terrible about it but ill admit when i was in the room with el he faded away. if he and i split i think i wont want a serious committed relationship for a long while again. i sort of dont want one now but im afraid of what his jealousy will do through him. everything would be easier if he had more people in his life. well get there. el is moving into a beautiful new house with a huge garden. i wonder if its the bottle house, since its in french loop. im very excited to get back in the dirt. and i get to see emma tonight so everything will get a lot better. i think everything with h would be resolved if i was just spending more time alone and time more with other people- i want to feel truly excited to see him. i also wish hed talk more, i like him best when i get him in flashes of conversation. different sort of hard to access from previous loves but not a dissimilar effect on me. im itching to turn the house over for spring.

[kneipho]

Submission: @mantrabay​

--

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea’s ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn’t yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea’s job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer’s block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea’s voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it’s sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren’t you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it’s on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I’ll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That’s when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don’t want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That’s when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She’s going to call over one of these days I’m sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I’m fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma …you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn’t believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn’t want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There’s been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I’ll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story mantrabay copyright protected

[spacecakes20]

Begin Again

(Chapter 5)

Chapter 6: Sebastian, Band Practice

Sebastian had taken a smoke break outside of the Stardrop Saloon. It was a lot colder at night in spring. The cool nights were the most enjoyable for him; like the crisp air did a good job of clearing his head. It also helped calm his nerves, especially when he needed a break from social interactions. He loved his friends, he did, but he always felt so drained by the end of their outings. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he released the smoke with a slow exhale.

     Friday nights were usually spent with Sam and Abigail at the saloon. It was the same almost every week; almost routine. This night, however, was different from the trio’s usual gatherings. Sam had invited the new farmer. Sebastian wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but he didn’t object to it either. She seemed nice enough, and the two didn’t give off the best first impression. Perhaps this could help them redeem themselves. He wasn’t expecting her to show up early. Wasn’t mentally prepared to be alone with her. He didn’t know what to talk about, and he didn’t want to just sit there in awkward silence. So, he did what he knew how; offered to play pool with her. He wasn’t sure if she was lying when she said she’d never played before. There was no way she was a novice. Sure, she still lost, but it was the closest he’d come to losing in a long while. Perhaps it was beginner’s luck. Or maybe she was a quick learner. Ether way, he was slightly impressed.

      Sebastian was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a door opening. He didn’t look up to see who it is. It was probably Shane or Pam calling it a night and heading home, probably shit-face drunk. It was late, and those two were usually the last ones to go.

      “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to still be out here.” That voice didn’t belong to Pam or Shane. Looking up, he saw it was a very sober Luna.

      “Yeah,” Sebastian answered dryly. “Just needed a smoke.”

      She nodded, “Well, it’s getting late, so…” She trailed off.

      “I’ll walk you home.” He said, not thinking about the words coming out of his mouth.

      Luna looked taken aback, “No, you don’t have to.” She was fidgeting with her hands, not quite looking at him, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

      Sebastian had flicked his cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it with his foot, “It’s fine.” He shrugged, “There’s a short cut through your farm to my house.”

      She lifted her eyebrows at that realization, “Well… if that’s the case.”

      The two began their walk together, only the sounds of crickets filling the ambiance of the night. Sebastian was never one for conversation; with new people especially. With Sam or Abigail, he’d usually let the two of them do the talking. Thankfully, he didn’t have to start the conversation; Luna had cleared her throat before giving him a look.

      “So, I was right?”

      That only just confused him, “About…?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and she looked downright smug.

      “You did go easy on me.” She said, “You played completely different with Sam than you did with me.”

      “I mean…” He rubbed the nape of his neck, “You still lost.”

      She simply hummed, face never changing, “But you’re not denying it this time.”

      The two were coming up to the bus stop, which meant they were close to their destination. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” He said dryly, humoring her.

      They finally made it to her farmhouse, the two standing at the foot of Luna’s stairs. Looking around the land, it was still a mess of trees, rocks, and weeds. However, there was a clear plot of crops located near one of the closest lakes. In the dark of night, he couldn’t quite make out what kind of crops they were. This was probably his first time on the property since Luna moved in. He used to use the back path as a handy shortcut on the way home all the time when the place was vacant. He, Abigail, and Sam would even hang around the property to smoke weed, easily out of sight of their nosy parents. It felt a little odd standing on the farm grounds now, knowing someone now lived there.

       “Soooo…” Luna eyed Sebastian with curiosity, “Where’s this short cut of yours?”

       He pointed toward the back-way headed north with his thumb, “Just take the back path till it leads you to an opening with a house surrounded by mountains. It’s pretty hard to miss.”

       Luna stared at him blankly, as though she was working through the information in her head. “Isn’t that… Robin’s place?” She tilted her head in confusion. The gesture was kind of cute.

       “Yeah?” He sounded equally as confused before he realized who he was talking to, “You didn’t know? Robin’s my mom.” Come to think about it, he can’t recall if he’d ever been upstairs when Luna visited. He was sure he did that intentionally. He was trying to avoid her not too long ago after all.

       “Oh!" She seemed surprised, "You’re Robin’s kid?” 

       Sebastian chuckled, but it sounded almost bitter, “I know. We don’t really look alike.” Wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard it. “Are you adopted?” Or, “Do you take after your father?” Were normally the follow-up questions. He braced himself for the inevitable.  

       “Oh no, that’s not it.” Luna tried to reassure him, catching him by surprise, “It’s just…” She bit her lip. She seemed to do that a lot. Perhaps she did it when she was thinking her next statement through. Finally, she said, “When Robin said she had a son, I thought he’d be a teen. I wasn’t excepting both of her kids to be adults. She still looks so young.”

       Sebastian stared for a minute, processing what she just said. That was a first he’d heard that one. It was a bit refreshing, honestly. “Oh,” He responded flatly. Then, with a bit more mirth he said, “I’ll tell her you said that.”

       Wait, “both of her kids”? So, she had already met Maru. That wasn’t too surprising. Maru was excited after hearing about the new farmer moving into town. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was one of the first townspeople to introduce themselves. Maru had always been the more outgoing and extroverted of the two siblings. She always made socializing look so easy. She and Luna would probably get along much better; it wasn’t too hard to picture.

       “I had fun tonight.” Luna’s voice brought Sebastian back to the forefront of reality. She tried to bite back a yawn but to no avail. She looked at him, looking almost embarrassed, “I should get going.” She gave him a small wave before making her way up the stairs. Before she made her way into her house, however, she turned to him with a smile. It was one of her smiles that made her eyes sparkle, “Good night.” She said simply.

       “Yeah,” He said back, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket, “G’night.”

       He watched her disappear into her house, a light she turned on shining brightly through the window. He wordlessly made his way through the unlit trail, slowly making his way back home.

                                                           ...

There was a buzz that sounded far away. Sebastian paid it no mind at first, the cozy embrace of sleep keeping him comforted. The buzz had stopped, but only for a moment. This time it sounded louder; almost closer. With a groan, Sebastian opened his eyes, vision still blurry from the remnants of sleep. Looking around, he realized the buzzing was his phone. He picked it up, only to be blinded by the vividly colored screen. He had to blink a few times before his vision adjusted to the light and came into focus. Four missed calls and 24 different text messages. Great. Scrolling through his phone, all but one of the texts seemed to be from Sam. His missed calls were also all from his overzealous blond friend.

        The first text started simply: You still on for band practice? Perhaps because Sebastian didn’t answer for an hour, the ones after that became a bit more obnoxious.  

        Sam: Seb? U up yet?

        Sam: Hello?

        Sam: Hello?

        Sam: Hey!

        Sam: Seb?

        Sam: Wake up sleeping beauty!

        Sam: We haven’t practiced in forever!

        Sam: Call me!

        Sam: R u ded?

        The texts just continued in an endless stream of meaningless blabber. Surly his friend must have been board. Rolling his eyes at Sam’s ridiculous impatience, he checked his other message. It was from his latest client, asking for updates on his newest project. Shit, he’d almost forgotten about that. It was due in just a few days. Going back to his text from Sam, he decided his impatient friend could stand to wait just a little bit longer. After one long stretch, he got out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he brushed his teeth and took a shower. Getting dressed in his usual dark attire, he finally shot Sam a text.

        Sebastian: Stop spamming me -_-

        He pocketed his phone without a second glance and made his way up the stairs. At the top, looking to his right he notices his stepdad, Demetrius, wasn’t present in his lab. To his right, his mother also wasn’t attending the front counter. Perfect! He swiftly made his way into the kitchen. No Maru in sight ether. So far so good. He went straight to the coffee maker, pouring his favorite blend along with some water, and turned the machine on. It felt nice to have the house to himself. There was no one there to berate him for sleeping in too late or ask him a million questions before he even had his morning (but really afternoon) coffee. His peace couldn’t last forever, though. He felt his phone buzz again, and he inwardly groaned.

        Sam: Omg!

        Sam: Ur alive!

        Sam: Praise Yoba!

        Sebastian rolled his eyes at his friend’s dramatics and placed his phone on the counter. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a few sips. He saw his phone buzz to life again, but this time with an incoming call. He didn’t even have to check the name to know it was Sam. With a flick of his finger, he answered.

        “Seb!” Sam yelled on the other line, making Sebastian wince. It was much too early for all this noise. Okay, it was two in the afternoon, but still.

        “What Sam,” Sebastian answered as calmly as he could manage.

        “Did you forget? It’s Saturday!” Sam sounded exasperated, making Sebastian feel a little guilty.

        “I overslept.” He said.

        Sam sighed on the other line. After a beat, he sounded more chipper, “Okay, listen! I’ve got some news!”         

        “Uh-huh.” Sebastian took a long sip of his coffee.

        “But I’m not telling you until you show up for practice though! ‘Kay?”

        “Sam…” Sebastian’s voice had a bit of a warning edge to it. “I’ve got a deadline coming up.”

        “Please!” Sam sounded distraught, “It’s really good news! I promise I won’t ever ask you for anything ever again!”

        Sebastian sighed, a ping of guilt stabbing his chest. This would be the second Saturday in a row where he skipped out on band practice with Sam. Coincidentally, it was also because he was working too close to a deadline. He did need to get his work done, but he would feel even more guilty about leaving Sam hanging for the second week in a row. Guess he’d just have to pull an all-nighter. Again.

        “Fine.” Sebastian sighed out, defeated. He almost didn’t hear the whoop, on the other end.

        “I knew you loved me!” Sam said.

        “I wouldn’t go that far.” Sebastian rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics. He was grateful Sam wasn’t there to see his ghost of a smile.

        “Alright!” Sam ignored him, “I’ll see you when you get here! Bye!” He hung up the phone without waiting for Sebastian’s response. He sighed to himself. His friends never seemed to understand that he had a job that was just as demanding as any other. Sebastian would never call if he knew his friend Sam was on the clock or visit Abigail if she was in the middle of her online classes. He just wished his friends would do the same.

        Just then, he heard some mumbling and giggles, the sound growing closer to the kitchen with each footstep. Sebastian looked up from his steaming cup of joe and was surprised to see Abigail, of all people, with his younger sister Maru in tow. They didn’t notice him right away, the two of them laughing at some unheard joke, before looking up in his direction. The two girls looked surprised to see him standing in his own kitchen.

        “Oh, hey Seb,” Abigail said with a wave. She sounded off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Did she look… nervous?

        “Um… Hey.” He waved dumbly, unsure of what to do with himself. “What are you doing here?”

        Abigail, if possible, went paler than usual. Her sea-blue eyes darted to Maru’s amber-brown ones, as though looking for an answer to his simple question. Maru was the one to speak up, “Oh, Abby just wanted to see one of my latest inventions.” She said simply, “It’s just a prototype now, but she wouldn’t stop asking me about it.”

        “Yup.” Abigail agreed, a bit too quickly actually.

        “And the time just got away from us sooo…”

        “We decided to grab lunch!” Abigail finished for Maru.

        “Oh-kaaay…” Sebastian wasn’t sure how to respond. It was a little unusual to see Abigail at his house, not there to see him. He didn’t even know she and Maru were even friends. He placed his unfinished coffee mug on the counter, grabbed his phone, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. “Well, I won’t keep you two.” He said on the way out of the kitchen, “I should get going.” He gestured to the coffee maker with his thumb, “There’s some coffee left if you want some.” And with that, he made his way out of the kitchen. He’d ask Abigail about this later, but for now, he needed to go see what all the fuss was about with his buddy Sam.

(Chapter 7)

[mantrabay]

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea's ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn't yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea's job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer's block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea's voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it's sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren't you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it's on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I'll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That's when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don't want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That's when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She's going to call over one of these days I'm sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I'm fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma ...you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn't believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven't seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn't want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There's been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I'll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story copyright protected

[emma-poole]

A long time ago, after a shift at the restaurant I worked at, I’d head to an Irish pub around the corner, hoping that the boy I liked would be there, too. He’d have a few drinks, becoming gradually redder in the face, which meant more prone to pulling me in a corner to whisper all the things he’d like to do to me. He was my co-worker, and everyone in the establishment knew we were sleeping together. He was also in a relationship- obviously unhappy- running on little sleep, a steady cocaine habit, and a complete emotional mess. I saw this as the perfect opportunity to open my heart, as one does in their early twenties. He was from upstate, New York; he also grew up around woods and bonfires, loved all things small town, and someday wanted a family. He was charming and hilarious, someone you’d imagine coaching high school baseball, equally as close to his players as he was their parents.

The establishment was the worst place I have ever worked, and where I made the most money. Pre-shift meant mentally gearing up for emotional chaos, the Hunger Games of waiting tables. By the end of the night, mysterious sauces had edged their way beneath my clothing. Teriyaki on rib cage. Spicy peanut in the hollow between my cleavage. I once sold weed to a table of four middle-aged women on vacation, who wanted to keep partying after dinner. They giggled when I slipped the tiny bag into their check presenter, having hunted down my colleague who always had at least two forms of drugs on him. It was disgusting and exhilarating, the amount of money we walked out with each night. For a year and a half, I always had at least $200 in cash in my wallet. I took a trip to China, and bought all of my friends the very expensive birthday dinner they took me out to, much to my own amusement. My apartment was tiny, cheap, and falling apart, but New York City was only just beginning to show me its whimsical and mercurial nature, both enveloping me in its magical arms and spitting me out like trash the next moment.

I spent many of those afternoons sitting in coffee shops wondering if the boy I was falling in love with and I would ever, actually, be together. The kind of partnership that involves mutual friends and accompanying each other home for holidays. Texts exchanged throughout the day, just because. He had recently told me he never felt for anyone the way he felt about me. That I brought something out in him that was both safe and intoxicating. You make me want to be a better person, he’d atone. I knew this was the type of thing that is safe to say for someone who doesn’t keep promises, who can romanticize words to excuse poor actions. Still, I lived for these tender interludes. They held me over in the maddening hours, when I’d go days without hearing from him. Back in my bed, I’d kiss his rumpled blonde hair and ruddy skin, think how lucky I was to feel that he was mine, even though mine is possession and possession is born from ego, something I am still learning to discern. We had sex in my tiny bedroom, mostly in the evening but sometimes during daylight, and I’d watch him beneath me, wearing only a white hanes tee-shirt, smelling like oak and musk, looking sad and beautiful, buckling beneath my hips as our rhythm increased, and I knew then that sex, however complicated the circumstances around it may be, could for a moment, make things simple. That two bodies, deduced to their most primal desires, could melt away the logical mind by a matter of accepted force and surrender, and that I wanted that power, and craved it, despite how awful it may make me feel the next morning, or many mornings, thereafter.

I finally quit that job, which meant I slowly began to quit him. We met for drinks a few months later, at a smaller Irish pub in Columbus Circle, the type of place you walk by every day without giving notice to. He had switched paths, at last leaving the service industry and beginning entry level at an advertising firm. Advertising? I asked, really? But it made sense. He had a way of making anything sound appealing, jumping in to reassure you the moment you felt yourself waver. I bet you look hot wearing a button up to work. I felt him harden beneath my hand. His weakness empowered me. I needed to feel that I still had him, that all of the sleepless nights and mental agony meant something. We left the bar to head to Central Park. The sun was going down, lighting all of the trees and its human inhabitants in hazy magic. We still had a few hours before the night crew poured in from the streets like ants, turning the park into a playground for offbeat activity. We laid down on a rock. He slid his hands beneath my jeans and fingered me, burrowing his face into my neck, becoming more aroused the less I cared that someone might notice. I never saw him again after that night. He lives in California now, with his wife. Today I work just two blocks from the restaurant that is no longer there. Sometimes I miss the ridiculous hawaiian rompers we had to wear after the lights went down. Transporting giant cocktails served in watermelons. Sex in basement storage rooms, no clothing removed, efficient enough to get back upstairs in time to drop your table’s entree, still pulsing underneath your apron. Never knowing but always anticipating the next time. They decorated the whole place with orchids. I can’t smell one without remembering.

*

It’s interesting when you sit down to write about your current life and end up dropping into a nine-year old memory. The mind is a vortex of temptation and confusion. It can make you nostalgic for a person you haven’t thought about in years, type his name into facebook and end up on his mother’s timeline, filled with posts about the Women’s March and the local theatre she visited last week. It makes you wonder about the choices you’ve made, how your apartment is much bigger now, but that sometimes you’re convinced you’ll never find the feeling you’re seeking, or the life you imagine you could be living. Like you walk by the same storefronts and street corners and nothing has changed except that you are older and time no longer seems like something you can waste.

A student shows up in class who I met on the subway. He asked me out by complimenting my eyelashes. I told him I wasn’t in a place to start dating, mostly because I wasn’t interested in him, but that I teach yoga and he should come by the studio sometime. Still, I am surprised when he does. I go to the local pet store to buy food for Robin. Along with my purchase, the cashier hands me an original portrait he painted of my face. I recognize the image from a picture I’ve posted on instagram. I am taken aback and flattered. He is talented, and shy. I keep the image propped up against the floor length mirror in my room, until it begins to crease in the middle. Now I keep it in a folder tucked away inside my closet. You should be more careful, a friend playfully warns. It’s fine, I repy. This stuff has been happening to me my whole life. Months later, a bizarre string of occurrences on the internet has me wondering if perhaps they are right, that I am too giving with information, too much of an open portal for dark energies looking for light to cling to.

I recall a spiritual teacher once advising to be careful of whom I allow into my life, and body. Their aura stays in us longer than we think.

*

I travel to Canada with my mother. The air is clean. We stay at a family’s home on a farm collective, rising early each morning to cast our hands into soil. I spend hours in the sun with the ladybugs and bumblebees, eat green beans directly from the vine. There is a 16-year old boy staying with the family, a distant cousin from Germany. He speaks little english but understands everything. He comes out to lunch with my mother and me, joins us on a long bike ride in the sand dunes. I catch him watching me while we pull weeds out of the earth, wonder if he knows I am nearly double his age. He sneaks me a piece of lettuce he has procured, laughs as I chew it gratefully. He has braces and teenage skin, but I recognize the man he will be- golden, steady, strong. A workman’s hands, calloused but kind. I wonder if they have ever touched a woman. At 16, I had already experienced my fair share of desirous hands, though it would be a full year until I lost my virginity, to another golden boy, blue-eyed, my first love. I hope to myself that he finds a girl one day who will love his soft demeanor, and eat vegetables directly from his gentle hands. I feel motherly toward him, while concurrently aware of his gaze.

Fall is around the corner. The night air is cool, like an exhale it seems the whole city has been waiting for. I no longer walk through tunnels and avenues waiting for people from my past to reappear, though at times I imagine all of the lives I could have lived, the thousands of directions it could have traveled. Cheryl Strayed says, I’ll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.

I close my eyes and smile at the elusive sailboat. You’re free to go, I whisper.

[mantrabay]

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea's ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn't yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea's job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer's block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea's voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it's sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren't you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it's on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I'll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That's when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don't want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That's when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She's going to call over one of these days I'm sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I'm fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma ...you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn't believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven't seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn't want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There's been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I'll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story copyright protected to mantrabay