And then he kissed me…

A lovely day for a visit — and a walk

And then he kissed me…

I visited Geoffrey my friend — once tutor, colleague and champion when pitted against Church Authority — again today. The last time I visited the nursing home, I feared he was at death’s door. He had been asleep most of the time and looking terribly weary and ill, so much so that I rang the nursing home today to enquire if it was all right to visit.
I found the residents large sitting room remarkably quiet and noticed many of the chairs were empty. The few who were present were sitting in a circle having toenails clipped.
“Who are you?” Geoffrey asked, when I greeted him with a smile.
I sat down beside him and told him (with many interruptions due to his deafness) my name and how we are connected. While this was going on I noticed a wonderful change in him. His complexion was that of a young man, he was shaved and his hair neatly cut (I could not help but notice the size of his ears!). He was neatly dressed and looked younger than his actual years — well into his eighties. Moreover, his voice was strong and almost authoritative rather like the Reverent Doctor I have known for many years.
He looked around and said that it was a very nice room. Somehow the church was brought into the conversation and he said that some very nice people attended the meetings. I rather think he thought we were at a study meeting, which took place in people’s homes. He said something about various views expressed and I said something about it being good that different aspects of faith could come together. He said, stumbling a little while trying to remember the word ‘Anglican’, that the Church encompassed a wide spectrum of faith — or some such.
I was amazed that he had been able to draw such views from his memory and express them. He was in a cheerful mood, smiling when I smiled — such a charming smile too! Then he suddenly asked me if I was his wife (mentioning her by name). Again I had to tell him his wife had died. And so it happened a few times. Once he said, “Oh yes, I seem to remember being told that.” But then he looked at the women in the chair next to him and asked if she was his wife. He would not accept my answer and demanded to know who the lady was. I could not answer nor could the poor woman being addressed! I diverted his attention by telling him that it was good to see him looking so young and sprightly. My goodness, he beamed! His whole face became radiant. I had been touching his hand while telling him about his wife and likely what was left of his memory bank made him think of holding hands with her. I had often seen them sitting on their little sofa together, holding hands like a young couple in love. He asked me again if I was she. He found it hard to accept what I told him but moved on…
Finally, it was time for me to go. Smiling, he gave me half a wink and said,
“Come on then, give me a kiss before you go.”
I bent over and he kissed my lips. Was I again his wife?
Overflowing with joy, I left the nursing home, so pleased that he could still smile and laugh even if he did spend most of his life in a confusing fog.
I found my hubby waiting in the car, which was parked overlooking the bay. We drove just a short distance and had a little walk by the beach. Holding hands as we always do, and, hopefully, always will.

A weekend retreat house with fish and dogs!

A weekend retreat-conference never to be forgotten

Notepad ready. So far all in the head!

We arrived early Friday evening. It was dark, cold and wet. The place stank of fish. My husband carried my case up to the small bedroom as directed by the strange overweight woman dressed in black. Before she left us, she showed me the nearest toilet on the landing. It was small with the lavatory under a sloping ceiling. She reached over to the toilet and lifted up both seat and cover.
“I keep telling them to leave the seat up,” she said crossly.
I wondered why that should be so. Usually people prefer to lower the cover to keep in smells. I came to the conclusion that with the ceiling being low, it required men to either kneel as though in prayer, or bend the knees in order to aim without head bumping on the ceiling. And if this was not done — perhaps because of infirmity — the toilet seat, if left in place, received an unexpected shower. Not nice for us ladies who have no hose to direct at the porcelain.
Back to the bedroom for my husband to wish me a good weekend and say goodbye. First, because of the freezing cold room, he tried to close the rattling window. No use, there appeared to be a permanent gap as the ancient window, with its small leaded panes, had distorted with age. (Mm, I know how that feels!)
A notice on the wall informed me of water-bottles in the kitchen that could be borrowed to make the guest’s stay more comfortable. I was beginning to wonder if we had entered Wuthering Heights by mistake.
I walked with my husband down the stairs and to the front door. I would have liked to have driven home with him. I might have been staying in an old picturesque building, but home had all the comforts.
I made my way to the sitting room through a miasma of stinking fish. I could hear the hounds of hell barking somewhere in the house. Another inmate informed me to keep clear of the two Alsatian dogs that were either tied up or inside the kitchen but occasionally escaped to other areas. The poor chap had actually been bitten by one of them and was clearly terrified of it happening again. Was that why he carried around his impressive posh walking stick? Or did he fancy himself as a proper gent. Maybe he had a medical problem that popped up from time to time.
Others arrived and joined us for a warm-up before dinner.
Like the walking stick guy, they had been there before and warned me of various matters.
On Fridays, I could expect fish pie served for dinner. Hence the stink of fish combined with a doggy smell. I was told NEVER to look inside the kitchen when the door opened while we sat at table in the dining room. If I saw inside the place where they prepared food, cooked, washed up and kept the dogs, I would prefer to go hungry.
I got a hint of what the kitchen might be like when we sat cramped together at one of the tables in the dining room. Immediately next to us, hamsters were racing round a wheel on a chest of drawers we were pushed up against. Hamster food scattered all over. The breakfast cereal boxes, kept there ready for the morning, had been chewed at the corners by mice. Some cutlery bore remnants of the last meal and plates had dirty watermarks — no rinsing there! The two devout ladies who ran the retreat house were constantly arguing. Clearly, being oversized and religious did not produce the harmony one might expect. No cheerful friars or chip-monks in that kitchen! The sounds of a hectic lifestyle, like the cooking smells, escaped the kitchen every time the door opened.
The meetings were held in a converted building across the yard. Plain, stark and uncomfortable. What did we learn? I’m sure it was appropriately erudite. Did we bond? Not a lot. Fortunately our venue changed and us with it.
It is a long time since I was on that training course, now my writing is creative rather than factual note taking, essays or sermons! Go to my Magpies Nest Publishing site for chapters, reviews and details about my books. (Some in pen names) Or my author site for extra details and a chance to comment. Having signed up with Dare Empire Media, my trilogy and The Dark Mirror are now available as inexpensive eBooks — cheap, quick to purchase and readily available on your lap top for tea breaks, odd moments, and train travel! Kindle versions available too.

June awakens to love but a fashion career is her ambition

June realises fashion can be seductive

June finds herself in a game of winner takes all

Deception, entrapment, betrayal. Can love survive in a judgmental world?

Eric… The Breaker of Hearts

The Dim Light

The Dim Light — a true story by Gladys Hobson

The light grows dim

In the dim light of the bedside lamp, I stood by the pink-flowered curtains that were keeping at bay the dark miserable night, and looked across at my yellow-skinned father’s head lying on snow-white pillows. With yellowed eyes closed, gurgles of laboured breathing came out of his open mouth in some semblance of sleep — the sleep of the dying.
My eyes followed the shape of his body under the lightweight bed cover and I reflected on the skeleton it had become, with parchment skin so thin that his bed sores refused to heal. I didn’t want to see his emaciated body; it seemed totally wrong for a daughter to see her father naked, especially his private parts, but he’d asked for his bottle so he could urinate. I’d given it to him and he’d performed, quickly returning to sleep. I could only be thankful. I did not want to hear him moan or scream.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I became fearful of speaking lest he awake and I betray my sorrow. Here lay a once proud, well-built man. A man who’d faced life’s challenges — and there’d been many of them — with courage and determination. Maybe he hadn’t been a perfect father, and without doubt he’d often treated my mother like a doormat, but much outrageous behaviour could be excused by his frustrations when, for years, trying to work in spite of increasing physical handicaps and pain.
My stalwart father, now reduced to this — a helpless bag of bones enclosing a rotting inside eaten away by a spreading cancerous growth.
I knew the district nurse had inserted suppositories to quell his pain. I also knew that this could mean the end. For months his suffering had been severe in spite of the many codeine tablets he swallowed daily. We knew that the change in treatment would prevent his fight against death — two, maybe three days away, or so the nurse had said.
No one had spoken to my father about dying. We had not dared. I recall a friend telling me that my mother had told her that when my dad thought he was dying, she woke to find his hands around her throat. He’d said that he thought he was dying and he didn’t want to die alone. I didn’t think he would have carried it out — surely not. Maybe he needed to express his fear. Afterwards he would have sobbed with shame. That is what he did — fall into depression — when he’d allowed his emotions to lead him into dark areas of his soul.
Earlier, I thought his end had come. I woke my mother and together we stood over his bed. But Dad opened his eyes:
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he demanded with new strength in his voice. ‘Do you think I’m bloody dying?’
Then his eyes closed again and mother went back to her couch in the lounge to try and rest a little longer. I kept up the watch, for that is why I had left my husband in charge of our children. My mother, weary with sleepless nights, needed me to be there.
How I would have loved to sit on his bed and take his hand in mine; to speak to him quietly and tell him that I loved him. But no one ever spoke of death and dying, no one ever spoke of cancer. My dad had major problems with heart, lungs and a creeping paralysis — these things were obvious to him and everyone. He believed he was suffering from jaundice and no one, not even the doctor was prepared to tell him different.
Is this what it must be for another two days? With my mother, already suffering acute weariness of body and soul, fading away; and my dad struggling with only agony waiting for him should he wake before another administration from the district nurse?
Time to pray. Not aloud. And time to talk to my dad, not with sounds but soul to soul.
So I whisper from my heart, prayers of love, repentance and forgiveness. I pray that God will take him now, not tomorrow or the day after. But now, in the peace and quiet of His presence.
And I turn to my dying father. I remember my granddad had been a lay minister who had gifts of preaching and healing. Yes, surely he would approve of the healing found in a peaceful death.
‘Let go, Dad. Don’t be afraid. Granddad is waiting for you. He’ll look after you. We all love you. God loves you too. You can let go now. Let go, Dad, let go..’
Gurgling noises come from my father’s throat, shortly followed by a deep, deep sigh…

The valley of the shadow...

The light shines on in the darkness

The darkness has not overcome the light...

The Man Who Told Lies

The Man Who Told Lies
By Gladys Hobson

‘Back from holiday? You won’t have heard then. That tramp who lived over there (he pointed to the cottages across the road) is dead. It was in the local paper — front page!’
Puzzled, I followed his gaze. ‘Tramp?’
‘You know, that old guy. Didn’t look after himself — drunkard. Wore shabby clothes, looked rough, needed a shave. Took his little dog for walks.’
The little dog — cute rat on long legs with a whippet tail — immediately identified the dead man. Tears rose in my eyes. ‘You mean Mark? Mark Ashley?’
‘That’s the guy. Told proper porkies. Police have been knocking on doors trying to find out if he had any relatives.’
‘He has a son — he’s a surgeon — and a grandson. They live in New York.’
‘Really? Nobody’s mentioned that. Better tell the police then. They’ve been asking all over the area. Someone said he has a cousin.’
‘He does. I think he lives nearby.’
With difficulty, I tried to hide the deep grief tugging at my heart. ‘What happened to Mark?’
‘Walked out to get his usual supper and fell down the cellar steps of one of those houses in Soutergate. Half drunk probably. A woman from the house rang for an ambulance. They took him to Furness General. He was sent on to Preston. He was in a coma for days, then he died.’
I was too upset to take in what else my neighbour said. Thankfully, he had to get to town and we parted company. No longer enjoying the beauty of trees and flowers that lined my path, or the warmth of midsummer sun, I walked the short distance to my home dazed and shivering. Mark dead? No more would I greet him and listen to his outrageous lies. No more would I see that silly grin and hear him chuckle at his own deceits. No more would I fuss that silly dog which had stolen his heart. Mark was dead. My friend Mark was dead and gone forever.
In my kitchen I made myself a pot of tea. I took a cup from the cupboard and put in a spoonful of coffee granules. I picked up the teapot and began to pour. What the hell was I doing? I hadn’t put in the milk. Wait a minute; there was coffee in the cup! I pulled myself together and decided on tea.
I drifted to the living room with its big picture windows giving views over fields and gardens. All so beautiful, life was going on as before, and yet…
Enjoying the familiar comfort of my reclining chair, I drank my tea and questioned why I felt so bereft. After all, Mark was not a relative nor had he been a close friend. True he was once a colleague sharing in the challenges imposed by the Ministry of Education when the local schools were reorganised into unwilling comprehensives, but he was a man very much on the periphery of my life.
Mark dead. I sighed deeply at the image in my mind of when I last saw him: uncombed hair topped with black woolly hat, grim face in need of a shave, head down, collar of black coat up, his limping frame bearing him up the road with his only true friend in tow — Peter the silent dog.
‘Hi, Mark,’ I said, as he was hurrying past.
He stopped, both he and Peter looking up. ‘Hello, Gladys, I didn’t see you.’
I patted the dog and it gave a nervous quiver.
‘What sort of breed is it?’
Mark proceeded to give me details of the dog’s unusual breed and pedigree, its very high cost and its naughty habits. I looked at the miserable dog, trembling at Mark’s ankles. Could that pathetic creature really take food from his plate, hide socks behind chairs, open his mail?
Mark’s face — pale skin, high cheek bones, square jaw, thin lips, fine nose slightly crooked, blue eyes under pale brows overhung with wispy greying hair — took on an aggrieved air. ‘That woman at the end of the terrace has accused me of letting Peter shit on her lawn. Huh, I told her, I take my dog out for a walk every day. It’s her own dog doing it, not mine.’
His countenance took on a conspiratorial look. ‘You know that ice-cream van that comes down the road?’
Who indeed could not recognise its monotonous chimes?
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised they get much custom. Most folk keep ice-cream in the freezer.’
‘They sell drugs to kids.’
He was watching for my reaction. Well, I could see the possibilities. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. The police know about it. There’s a copper lives opposite me. He’s keeping an eye on it. That’s not all’ He nodded across the road. ‘That house that was for sale. Criminals have moved in. Police know. They’re doing surveillance.’
I nodded; after all I was aware of dealers pushing drugs in the town. I had recently been involved in a drop-in centre for the town’s youth. One evening, a police officer called in at the centre to warn us of the drug problem, and what to look out for. From then on, my nose was on the alert for wacky baccy. But criminals living in our close-knit area?
Whenever and wherever I met Mark he had a tale to tell me. I guess, spending many hours alone in his cottage with only his little dog and a bottle for company, he was short of intelligent conversation to brighten his day. He loved to be outrageous and so it was really quite difficult to sort truth from lies.
I knew he was a keen horseman and for years had entered races with his big white horse and, at one time, was keen on trotting with a small horse and light trap. That he fractured a leg several times and had received poor settings was obvious by his limp. Maybe part of his reason for drinking was to dull the pain he constantly suffered. Several tales came from his horsy connections.
‘You know Joan Smith, the geography teacher?’
‘Not personally, but I used to see her in the staff room.’ I could have added that I heard her too: she had a loud voice and a raucous laugh. ‘Jolly lady, sat with her smoking colleagues.’
He nodded with an urgency to get on with his tale. ‘She asked me to arrange the transfer of her daughter’s new horse. I turned up at the address given and was told the girl was not there.’ He gave a sort of whinny. ‘She said she had gone to paradise. So I said, “Oh, I am sorry. I’ll call another day”.‘
‘Really, that must have been rather embarrassing for you,’ but I was wondering if he was having me on.
‘Well, Joan was in the staff room the following day, so I asked her what she wanted doing with the horse. She told me her daughter wanted it taking to the field as instructed.’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Paradise is a place just up the road from where they live!’
I guess that tale could be genuine, or did he dream it up? At least he made me smile and perhaps that was all he wanted. Another tale he told me concerned a member of the royal family and a horse-and-trap race across Morecambe Bay. Evidently he accidentally messed up the start of the race, which earned him an unmentionable comment from the royal personage taking part. Mark looked deeply aggrieved.
‘I don’t care who he is, I told him even my father never spoke to me like that. And I wasn’t going to take it from him either.’
‘Good for you, Mark.’ Knowing that his temper had once led him to punching the parent of a boy he once taught, I found it easy to believe what he was telling me, but was I gullible old fool? I have heard of the Duke of Edinburgh driving a coach and horses across the sands but I have not found any evidence of horse and trap races, never mind His Royal Highness taking part.
Relaxing in my chair my mind took me back to the year, 1979. Three schools — girls’ grammar, boys’ grammar and a down-at-heel secondary — had come together to form a comprehensive establishment of fifteen hundred souls. Few people seemed happy about it. A few teachers gained but most lost out; the youngsters from the secondary school were convinced the ‘posh lot’ hated them; and the grammar kids were not keen to mix with that ‘lot from down the road’. Only the boys gained some satisfaction — girls galore! The parents of the grammar pupils had been promised separate streaming for their children where their education would continue until leaving at sixteen. Although the form classes were mixed, the pupils kept to their own social groups and then went off to be taught as before. Unfortunately, some teachers considered those from the secondary school as being unworthy of their time. Mark was not one of them.
His aloofness stood him out from the rest of the staff. He had little to say at meetings. Mark had made it clear to me that, although he was on a scale two, he had no intention of doing more than a scale one because he had not been given a position of responsibility. Evidently the extra scale applied to when he served in a different department — teaching biology. But since he had a degree from a top College of Art and had designed furniture on a commercial basis, I was surprised he was not a departmental head within the Comprehensive system. That is, until I got to know him better.
Whatever skills Mark had, and they were many, he was a very poor communicator where adults were concerned. It was some years later that I discovered his adeptness at telling lies. Even then I tended to take him at his face value.
Of course, he often annoyed me when, on taking an art class after him, I found the room untidy, the sink full of filthy brushes, no stock in the cupboard and, quite often, no drawing paper because he has used it all for his pupils to make sketch pads in bookbinding lessons. Not only that, but he copied some of my carefully thought up ideas for art classes. Even so, for whatever reason, I liked the man. Maybe it was because, when he did speak, he was not afraid to say what he thought. He was stubborn and could be incredibly witty: his guffaw creasing his face into a quirky smile. Also, the fact that he did find my ideas good enough to use with his own pupils boosted my ego; after all, I did not have his training or qualifications.
The day I retired from teaching, I was formally handed cards, flowers and a gift from the staff, but the thing I treasured more than anything was the simple present left on my desk. A single white rose stuck on a homemade card — a flying dove cut out of white cartridge paper — with Mark’s name and best wishes inside. I was deeply touched.
It was some years before I saw Mark again. I was surprised to see him on several occasions shopping in Ulverston. I recognised his lumbering gait before I saw his rugged unshaven face. But on each occasion, he was across the road and walking too quickly for me to catch him up. A few weeks later, I actually met him face to face. He told me that his mother had died and that he was moving out of Barrow to live in Ulverston, but he did not have time to go into details. So when I saw him enter a house just around the corner from us, I was pleasantly surprised. He saw me and invited me into his cottage to show me the improvements taking place. I invited him to my home for a chat when he had a free evening.
It wasn’t long before he was ringing our doorbell. I was pleased to see him.
‘Come in, Mark. We’ll go in the small sitting room; it’s quiet in there. Do you want a coffee?’ He declined: he’d only come for a brief chat.
So he sat on one of our vintage armchairs and made himself comfy. He had a way of wriggling into a chair as though shaping it to fit his body. Having settled into the seat, he sat back, shuffled his shoulders, crossed his legs and placed both hands on the top knee. He looked around the room, twitching his loose foot and occasionally jerking a shoulder. I could imagine him thinking, ‘Nothing Andy Warhol in here.’ He made no comment on my pleasant collection of Heaton Cooper prints — not his style.
I sat close by with my armchair at an angle — distant enough to be non-threatening but easy enough to converse eye to eye should he wish to do so. I gave him a few moments to take in the relaxing decor of the room: neutral pastel colours of walls, carpet and curtains with little splashes of colour introduced in cushions and pictures.
‘So, what made you move to Ulverston?’
He began by telling me about the trouble he’d had with his neighbours. ‘I like a garden that grows naturally — wild like.’ I nodded in acceptance, but thinking I was glad he wasn’t living next to us. ‘They complained about the tree growing in my garden. None of their business. I wasn’t getting it pruned back, it would have ruined it.’
And so he continued chatting, telling me about his search for a house and the need to have somewhere for his horse. The tiny cottage he had just acquired had cost him £19,000 and he was busy with alterations to give a more spacious feel to the place. He now had a gas fire set in the wall above floor level. ‘I’m giving it a black surround to match the furniture. Call in and see what you think.’
After a while he started shuffling in his chair and fidgeting with his hands. He looked at me and opened his mouth to say something then changed his mind. ‘I was going to tell you about…but no, better not…’ He shuffled some more. ‘Yes, I will tell you. I can trust you not to tell anyone else.’
Then began an extraordinary tale about receiving a letter from a woman he had known in his student days, who, at the time of writing, was dying of cancer. According to Mark, she wanted him to know that he had a son, and that he was also a grandfather. He then told me about the money his mother had taken from him every month, and of his wondering what she had done with it all, especially since she had died almost penniless. ‘Unknown to me,’ he said, ‘I had been keeping my son at Winchester. He’s a consultant surgeon now.’
He told me how his parents had decided he was too young to marry his student girlfriend and so kept their knowledge about the baby to themselves. Evidently the girl’s parents had been in touch with them and it had been a joint decision: presumably the girl had acquiesced to her parents taking over the baby’s welfare. Well, knowing things were different years ago, it was not difficult to believe the story, especially as Mark was going to show me a photograph of his grandson when I called at his house.
The photograph was of a handsome young boy, dressed in a riding outfit and astride a fine-looking horse. The fact that it was a black and white photograph was explained as having been snapped for a newspaper, his son being the winner of a prize. That was the first of many tales about his family. I saw no other photos but I refused to be suspicious.
Mark’s son had moved to New York but came over occasionally as he was following up a few of his important cases. I was told about a boy’s big toe being amputated to form a missing thumb and the complications resulting from the procedure, and of other tricky operations that his son specialised in. Do consultants really travel across oceans to follow up their cases?
Evidently the family visited him occasionally but did not stay long. They wanted him to go and live with them in New York. Mark said that he had visited the place and was not sure that he would be happy there. He told me quite a few stories of a private nature, but the one that sticks out in my mind because I can see it starkly in black and white, concerns the parentage of father, son and grandson. The three males were taking a walk together; each was dressed in black coat and black woolly hat. Mark said he had to laugh. ‘Look at us,’ I told them, ‘three bastards all dressed alike!’
Mark giggled at the telling of the tale. ‘All of us were born out of wedlock. Not many people know that.’
I felt honoured that he should confide in me. From that time on he often came up with a story about his surgeon son, of which he was very proud, and his grandson that took after his granddad for horsemanship.
Mark was still active: judging at horse trials and still riding. He also had a part-time job lecturing at Lancaster University. He told me that he only had three or four students to tutor: the young men were below standard and needed personal tuition. Mark said he had received a letter from one of the youth’s parents, thanking him for the help her son was receiving. Later he said he had a few hours a week at Edinburgh University. Those were the only times I saw him going out dressed up, walking into to town with brief case and umbrella to catch his train. Most of the time, when he was going down Soutergate to do his bit of shopping, he was unshaven and scruffy-looking. He was just the same when he was walking his nervous little dog.
One Sunday, I met him on my way to church. He stopped for a chat and, much to my surprise, came with me. Then some time later, when I was working in a church some distance away, he came to hear me take Evening Prayer and preach. It so happened that he knew the organist who was studying for a doctorate with the Open University. It was after that event that Mark told me he’d studied to become a doctor, but could not stand the sight of blood and so had to drop out. But he had done well at his London art college, so I decided he was a man of high IQ and many talents. I was not completely aware then of his wonderful talent for lying!
His son’s wife came into the stories occasionally, the two seemed to get on well together, certainly enough for him to be invited to live with them in New York. He told me he was going to stay there for three months to see if he liked it enough to move. He would not give up his home because he would use it for holidays. That seemed a very sensible thing to do, even though he had no idea then that the value of his little cottage would have increased almost fivefold twelve years later.
Other people came into his tales. He told me that a friend of his son was staying at his house while doing work at Glaxo. But I never saw anyone going in, or coming out of Mark’s house — including his family. No cars parked outside either, but maybe his visitors used the train. In fact, there could be an explanation for any oddity in Mark’s stories. Even so, when I asked him when he was going for that three months trip to New York he looked puzzled and needed reminding of what he’d told me. Also, why didn’t his close neighbours know anything about his family? And, why did they all think of him as a teller of porkies? As to Mark’s drinking and tramp-like appearance, had the man been a spinner of yarns to hide a sad and lonely existence? Well, the funeral would surely come up with answers about his family — or lack of it.
Life went on in the town without Mark but I sometimes saw a figure and thought, ‘Oh, there’s Mark,’ until realising I was mistaken — a common happening with people who have made a deep impression before their death.
We were away when the funeral had finally taken place. I did not make enquiries as to who was present: I decided to leave my memories of Mark intact. Mark is dead, but for me he will live on as the warm colourful character I knew him to be.
Or would I rather not know that I am a gullible fool?
Years later, and I still miss him. I ‘see’ him down the road and walking the footpath. He was part of my landscape and I guess he always will be.

The stream at Gill Banks where Mark walked.

The Man Who Told Lies is published in Northern Lights, an anthology published by Magpies Nest Publishing — visit the publishing site for more extracts from the book

Is Mark still here?

The Sacrifice — another short story

The Sacrifice — short story by Gladys Hobson

He opened his eyes and in the dim light what he saw terrified him: six men dressed alike in strange outfits, masks over their faces, were performing some sort of ritual around where he lay. He wanted to call out, ask them who they were, what they were doing, but he could not speak, neither could he move. He was on his back and his hands and feet were splayed out and tied down.

His heart beating wildly, he struggled against his bonds but pain seared through his body. He wanted to scream but could not.

They were now drawing closer, instruments in their hands, but his vision was too blurred to see what they were. The creatures were muttering incantations, moving in ritualistic patterns.

Oh no! No! No! He didn’t want to die… not like this, not on an alien planet far from home and loved ones. Surely this must be a nightmare and he would wake up. He tried to force himself awake, but as pain shot through his body he realised this was a nightmare from which there was no awakening.

A masked dark face bent over his: he could see beads of sweat on the creature’s brow. A mumbling sounded in his ear followed by another shot of pain the length of his chest and whole abdomen, radiating out to every nerve in his body. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his mouth, it merely revolved in circles within his head — pain, pain, pain!

The creatures were now moving around in the dim light, some carrying bowls — of his blood and body parts? They were performing more rituals, around and around in weird patterns. He knew for certain that these movements had to do with him: he was the victim of an alien kidnap and this was a ritualistic sacrifice. How long must his suffering go on? Hours? Days? Weeks? For ever?

Sheer terror possessed him. He wanted to die…

It was some days before the drugs wore off after his ten-hour operation, and only then did he realise that the aliens were post-operative nurses. But the pain remained.

(Based on a true event)

For my latest book The Dark Mirror by G B Hobson in print and E formats
— visit: Dare Empire. Or buy from Amazon.com

Deception, entrapment, betrayal, heartache. Can love continue to believe all things, overcome all things in a judgmental world?