WATER

This was the title for our creative writing group. Here is the story which is partly true

Pushing the door open I stepped into a damp clammy room similar to a film set from a horror film. Figures were vaguely visible in the gloom, each sitting in an arched seat cut into the wall. The faintest of lights showed that eyes were closed and each head was tilted to touch the tiled walls. Classical panels hovered between the figures and the roof like headstones still waiting the addition of a name. Four seats were vacant around the curved walls and as my vision became more sensitive I took my place on the moist surface.

This was the Aqua Meditation room. Part of our short break included an afternoon in the Luxury Spa with herbal and steam baths, sensory showers and saunas. According to the guide I was now, assisted by a refreshing scent of lemons, in an oasis of total relaxation where body and soul became one. My spirit was about to be uplifted and my mind invigorated.

Unfortunately at that moment the door opened, pushing a little extraneous light into the shadows and back lighting my son in law, John. He stepped forward, turned to his left, and then tripped over the outstretched legs of another worshipper. He lay embarrassed across the thighs of a more mature lady, his arms reaching forward to stop himself falling onto the floor. She smiled wistfully, her hand hovering as though wanting to stroke John’s naked back. No one else moved; they were obviously being deeply calmed in their inspirational meditation.

I tried to still my mind, breathing deeply and slowly, with my eyes closed. Rhythmically I counted to four on the in breath, held for four, breathed out, held again and then drew a deep gasp of desperation on the final count. I was told afterwards that I sounded more like a steam engine labouring up a hill with a long coal train.

I opened my eyes and sat more upright in my seat. There were now eight of us sitting round the central font. Overhead was a huge convex milky glass screen suspended from the ceiling. As tiny drops of water hit the central bowl, the ripples were reflected upwards. Lines moved across its surface like clouds viewed through the windows of an aeroplane. I began looking for patterns but what came to mind were thoughts of creation and the primal swamps of early evolution. Perhaps this was how life began. Each movement represented a thought, communicated by intensity of shape, touched each other, and then returned from the centre to the perimeter only to reform but after another manner.

This was heavy stuff and I closed my eyes again letting the stillness calm me. A solitary drop of water lost its hold on the screen and plopped downwards, gently tapping my forehead before splitting in two and curving towards my cheeks. Was this a reflection of creation? Did a single atom slip from the swirling movement and begin a journey into manifestation.

I half opened my eyes to peer at the water movement again. Something was wrong. Three black spots floated before my eyes. I blinked. They were still there. I shook my head. Common sense cut in. Relief! Three tiny dark spouts protruded below the dome. I must have seen them before but had not realised this was the source of the tiny drops of water falling to make reflected patterns.

With a smile I scanned the room wondering if any one had seen the alarm on my face. I reached sideways, touched my wife, Norma’s fingers and gave a gentle squeeze. Her skin felt sticky and I put my hand back on my knee to see if my body was the same. This place was supposed to calm, not throw alarm calls around.

I breathed deeply again. The lady in the azure blue bikini stood and smiled round the room before carefully stepping over feet and moving to the door. The inflow of natural light reflected off her pale skin before the door snapped closed again. Perhaps it was as well she’d been almost hidden by the central water column, or my attention might have strayed.

I tipped my head back and stared briefly upwards before telling my mind to drift wherever it would. A gurgle murmured into my consciousness, burbling, babbling, bubbling as the water container emptied itself and the heavenly movements ceased. Then three loud plops echoed and the lines chased each other into and out of the centre again. I wanted my left eye to watch one direction and my right to track their return.

Another heavenly missile found its target on the tip of my nose, running down the side, past my mouth and trickling onto my chin. I looked at Norma and raised my eyebrows in query. She nodded. Carefully we stood, and squeezed past the chap with the moustache who’d just started to snore and opened the door.

It was amazing what could happen with water.

828 words

ON THE TABLE STOOD A CUP; IT WAS HALF EMPTY.

This was the theme for the months story for the U3A writing meeting.

It was a strange house. Nothing felt right. The front door looked as though it should open to the right, but instead it swung to the left. The tiles on the hall floor should have been a symmetrical pattern, but when your eyes studied them, your brain wanted to spin within your head and place them into a sequence that would have been wrong, yet would have stilled your mental activity.

Ian pushed the door with his elbow and expected a typical ghostly creak. But it hissed softly and moved exactly the right amount for him to step through. As his soft shoes struck the tiles a sound echoed upward as though he had wooden clogs on his feet. He shivered and wondered if he should be there at all.

“Andie. You in there?” he tried to shout but his whisper was no more than the wind hissing through a broken window in this old, decaying house. “Andie!” He tried again and this time his voice bounced back at him off the oak panels across the hall. Ian stared into the gloom, his eyes adjusting to the low light level. Something about the panels reminded him of the tiles. Standard panelled wall construction from a century or so ago, but if asked he knew he could never describe their size or count the number of wooden panels.

He touched the light switch and even though he knew it would not work, Ian flicked it down. He grunted at his own embarrassment and walked across the hallway to the four panel door on the right. It was slightly open and more light was visible beyond it.

Ian felt cold now and pulled his coat collar upwards. He knew if he turned and faced the outside door, he would probably run out and down the gravelled drive as fast as he could. But Andie must be here somewhere. Why had he let him come in on his own? His eyes flicked from left to right and back again.

The light in the room before him seemed brighter and the corner of a table was visible. Innocuous, he thought. Probably chairs, cupboards, usual kitchen paraphernalia from the last time the place had been lived in. A tiny sound stopped him entering the room. His mind couldn’t identify it though. All his conscious thought could reason was that it radiated out from a tiny spot in the centre of the cause. But despite the minuteness of the noise it had far greater implications than its essence.

Ian shook his head. The eeriness of the place was getting to him. “Andie!” he shouted again and an echo whispered back to him louder than he knew he’d shouted. “Damn. Where the hell is he?”

“Is he, is he?” retorted the emptiness as he pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

The amount of light increased as a full moon flicked its beam thought the leaded light window. A tattered lace curtain fluttered in the draft through a broken panel and made strange patterns on the pine housekeepers cupboard. Ian glanced round the room expecting to see other cupboards, shelves, perhaps a cooker.

No. Just a scrubbed top pine table towards one end of the room and a slat back chair pushed away as though someone had suddenly stood and moved away. Exactly in the centre of the table stood a cup. Royal Doulton Countess Ian muttered as he saw the green pattern on the rim. He went to turn it over and confirm the make when he realised there was liquid in it. Half full, he thought, or should it be half empty.

The tiny sound he’d heard before caught his attention. Stepping back from the table he slowly turned round. He knew something about the noise was going to be really important. Then as it sounded again Ian knew what it was. He looked at the half empty cup. As another droplet popped downwards, Ian flicked his cigarette lighter into life and looked at the liquid. Then holding the flame upwards towards the ceiling he saw the red stain soaking through the ceiling.

A footstep sounded in the hallway and Ian spun round. The door creaked. Slowly it moved, squealed in anguish and then closed with a grunting thud. A figure leaned back against the oak panels on the door. Its clothes were old fashioned, not of this century or world. Ian couldn’t see the full features, but the face looked gaunt, drained of blood. A malicious leer spread across its lips. The voice was hollow, unearthly. “Come upstairs Ian. Andie’s waiting for you to join him. Take my hand.”

The room was icy cold. The figure was growing in size. “Andie wants you up stairs. It will be peaceful then. You can feed the house.”

Ian moved backwards. He drew his arm back to break the window glass. He could dive through……

.

Curtains swished back and daylight flooded the room. “Wakey, wakey, Ian. You had a bad night? Your blankets are on the floor.” His mother smiled down at him. “It’s a lovely day outside.” She placed a cup of tea on his bedside table. “Sorry it’s half empty. We’re short of milk.”

872 words Sept 2010