The Word Cloud

"O brave new world! That has such people in it!"

2012 - allegedly the year of change, either by apocalypse, spiritual renewal or magnetic pole reversal (to name but a few of the mad things people are going on about). Whatever 2012 will bring us, we stand upon a brink; January is the month of renewal, where we speculate about the new and reflect upon the old. Do we prepare to fly, or teeter upon the edge of an abyss? So the subject of this month's competition is 'Brave New World' - in 200 words or less.

Dear Sid and Mary

New Year’s Eve was nothing like I had expected.

My shift finished at 6, and when I arrived home it was quiet.

I remember thinking, ‘James must be out with Sally.’ It was then that I noticed the envelope on the mantelpiece.

I read his letter 100 times whilst getting drunk on Baileys.

‘Dear Mags. I’m sorry to do it this way, but I couldn’t face telling you in person. I’ve moved out and taken Sally with me. I know how much you love her, but she is my dog. With the start of a new year, it’s made me realise, this isn’t what I want. I’m so very sorry. Take care... James.’

Two years gone in one paragraph. I didn’t see it coming!

When I first met James I had been planning a six month trip visiting all the countries I’d only ever dreamt of and now, there was nothing stopping me.

So, dear Mary and Sid, I’m sending this postcard from Peru in way of an apology for attending your New Year's party on Saturday. Saturday! Two days ago! Wow – I can’t believe I’m here.

Happy New Year.

See you in six months.

Relax, breathe in, hitch up skirt, examiner likes legs. Hands at quarter to three, check mirror, indicate, handbrake off, wait for the bite. Go. Stall – bugger. Heartbeat flares. Neutral, apply handbrake. Deep breath. Hands at quarter to three, check mirror, indicate, handbrake off, wait for the bite. Go. We have liftoff. Drive towards the railway station, always the same. Bunch of grapes, check mirror, indicate, stop. Neutral. Look both ways, empty road, check mirror. Sweaty palms. First gear, ease off handbrake, turn right. Check speedo 28 mph. Slow down, speed bumps - thump ... thump ... thump. Parked car, check mirror, indicate, pull out, pull in ... a face distorted by the crazed windscreen, THUUUUMMP! CRACK! Blood spray ... lifeless eyes gaze through the red. The face slides away leaving a crimson smear. Glass shattering screams, my screams ... ruby glass raindrops on lap. GET OUT! Open door, fall out. Blood seeps and pools. Broken body, unseeing eyes. Many eyes, stony faces, sirens scream. Breathalyser, handcuffs pinch, heavy door is locked ... for three years. Grey is so not my colour.

How should I caution young Aldous? His rare creativity demands nurture, his naivety precious but dangerous. He may soon comprehend the power of his ideas but, please, let that knowledge come soon. His prophetic namesake, Huxley, understood that dreams could become nightmares. Learn that, Aldous, learn it well.

As befits a young man he knows no fear, he lacks uncertainty, hesitancy learned through the years. He has not yet seen his seedling notions pruned and trained by the incompetent or unscrupulous to become an invasive and devastating blanket of weed.

For 2012 is a dangerous year hiding pitfalls around every corner. A time of austerity for most: sad gravity for many, this is a time for careful steps. History teaches that the human animal, when cornered, seeks scapegoats. Many such already find themselves named with depressing predictability.

So beware, young Aldous, of bold visions offering solutions to those who abhor small print. Misguided relief for the masses, bought at great cost to the despised few. Opportunists lie in wait. No leaders, these, no ideas to inspire belief, just polls to measure the prevailing current. Parasites, merely followers from the front, I fear they may prosper in this brave new world.

(200 words)

Big Ben chimed and the champagne toast was laid hastily aside for 'Auld Lang Syne'.
Will caught my eye, asking wordlessly if I was OK. I nodded and forced a smile as my arms were pumped up and down. Why had I even allowed myself to be persuaded to come?
"Resolutions! What resolutions are you going to make?" squealed Amanda. "I'm going to get my boobs done at last - Tony says I can, don't you darling?" Tony looked sheepish. She turned to me.
"What about you, Zoe?"
Words failed me. But only for a moment. I'd already decided...just hadn't known how to tell Will.
"Redecorate Josh's room."
"That's not very ambitious," Tony remarked. Amanda prodded him in the ribs. "What? What did I say?"
"Are you sure?" Will asked, taking my hand in his. "Really, really sure?"
"Yes."
I can't keep it as a shrine for ever.
It's five years since my son died.

155 words.

Lucy, the girl always content within her own special world, spoke to me.

'It is 2012 and high time we flew over the mountains of the north to find our true selves.'

Her message was clear and I bowed my head in agreement.

We would be brave; we would find our new world.

She took my hand in hers and we soared with the eagles.

‘What colour are Elves, daddy?’

The TV news programme showed the latest atrocities.

I turned away, wiped a hand across my face, and looked at her crayons. She was holding a green one.

‘Red, white, and blue,’ I said. ‘Like mummy.’

‘I like this.’

She picked out a yellow one, and filled in the picture.

They were calling it World War Three.

‘I don’t think Elves have yellow eyes,’ I said. ‘How about grey?’

‘Silly, Daddy. Mummy said my Elves are happy.’

Another suicide attack by the robot warriors from North Korea.

‘Did she?’

‘Daddy … when is mummy coming back?’

An estimated four hundred dead.

How could I answer that? Mummy was on the USS Brave New World. Shipping attacks by the enemy had decimated the fleet. Hers was our last bastion. My cell phone rang. I listened to the words I’d been dreading, rejected the condolences. I’d fallen into the abyss.

I held onto Laura, and gave her a hug. ‘Colour Mummy black,’ I said.

‘Why Daddy?’ Why…?

New Arrival

Last year he arrived, squalling. This year he’ll get bigger.

I left a message for my sister two days ago. She calls back this morning, still crying. Should I come over? Not today, she says, maybe tomorrow. So much for anti-depressants.

She talks between tears.

“He won’t nap. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“He’s still learning, I guess... three months...” But what do I know?

She cries again. I have to listen hard.

“It’s supposed to get easier. But it’s not, it’s not.”

I’m useless. I say nothing.

“I wish someone’d take him. There’s no sleep.”

I’m still in bed; no errands to run. But she brought this on herself. Her choice, this brave new world. Did she think it through? Not enough, not enough. And what can I do about that now?

“If you want me to visit later...?”

“I don’t know...” A wail, his this time. “I have to go. He needs a feed.”

Milk will silence him, but she is inconsolable. We hang up. Now I’m further away.

Last year he arrived. This year he’ll only get bigger. And bigger.

How awful.

Fort Benning Basic Infantry Training Center. The womb of the Infantry.

A long line of young, scruffy men by a shiplap shed with six barber chairs in it. The thirty second hair-cut.

Guy in front of me must have been an Elvis impersonator before signing up. I hate this fucking guy and I have never even seen him before.

Barber asks Elvis if he wants to keep his sideburns…Elvis says “Yes Sir” The barber cuts them off with his clippers and hands the shocked Elvis a clump of hair, while laughing around his cigar. ‘Chemo’ Elvis staggers out.

Next we move to a big shed. We are given canvas sacks. We are handed uniforms which will crush any sense of choice or individuality. Judging by the scumbags here, that is a vast improvement.

“Into that gear in thirty fucking minutes, girls”. We fail. In three weeks we will do it in seven minutes.

Group pushups until ten of us have puked and three are crying. …and I know in my soul that more than anywhere else, for the first time in my life, I am home.

Four years later, ‘Elvis’ would save my life. Seven years later, he was dead.

I felt his warm hand caress my brow.

"Not long now... Deli-belly."

"My name's Delilah," I mumbled.

Why did he still insist on calling me that, it made me sound like a bad case of diarrhoea. Okay, it was fine while I was still pregnant, but not anymore.

I opened my eyes and found his face millimetres from mine. His eyes misted and bloodshot from crying.

"Have I missed it?"

"Only just," he answered.

"Happy new year, I suppose."

"Happy... new... year," he sobbed in response.

Kicking off the blanket, I pushed myself up and leant back against the pillows, and shuddered, as the cold drew me ever deeper.

"Let me get -"

"- No, I'm fine," I interrupted, "bring her closer, please."

He wheeled the crib over to the bed, and I looked at our newborn baby girl.

"Faith..." Another shudder took me further away. "Daddy will tell you every day how much I love you. He's going to need you to be strong."

I closed my eyes for the last time. Cancer might have won, but I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do, give my life for our child.

"Be brave my little Faith..."


196 words.

WOT no winner?

There will be once I've done the shopping, sorted the kids out and finished my housework!!

Okay, both girls full and now playing, so I've got five minutes... and I'm in tears. Oh, dear lord, do you lot know how to tug upon this poor girl's heartstrings.

I'm really torn. Squidge was the first one to set the waterworks, then Stephenterry ratched it up a notch. Sassie and Fat Old Prop made sure they stayed, but Phillipa... what a gut punch. And for the sheer emotion you stirred in me - Phillipa, I crown you the winner.

Now I'm off to find some tissues (seriously, you guys - I'm a mess!)

Congrats Phillipa - looking forward to what you choose this month for us to have a go at.

Ditto! JX

Really?!
?????
I am totally amazed! I thought there were some fantastic entries on here, so thank-you so much for awarding me the winner. I can't believe it.

I will get on it straight away and set the competition for February.

Thanks again!

You completely caught that hopeless feeling when your child has an issue, Phillipa - it's something I can relate to so much. My eldest daughter, whilst growing very well, has severe, life threatening allergies to everyday things that we take for granted, and I just know that feeling you captured so well... it really struck a chord deep within me, and as far as I am concerned, that is what writing is supposed to do. That and the fact that it was very well written!

Gosh, I'm sorry to hear about your daughter. I'm glad she is doing OK. My piece was written from direct experience too (currently, with my sister), so maybe that's why it hits a nerve. Write what you know, eh?

I think those feelings are ones you have to experience - no matter how skilled you are, I don't think you can cut to the core of them without knowing them. My daughter had her first anaphylaxsis at 14 weeks old, and I will never forget to my dying day the moment when she started choking and then just folded in on herself and went floppy. Even when you're enjoying yourself, the worry never leaves... the fear and the mind-numbing exhaustion that goes with it, having to check everything you buy to make sure it's okay for her, telling people 4, 5, 6 times or more that no, she can't have cake, and no, she can't have a yoghurt, and please, don't let your child wander around with a cheese sandwich, because what is a simple foodstuff to you is a trip to A&E for us... and the worst thing is, because she looks fine, people just think I'm one of those pushy mothers whose kids don't really have problems until I get her medical bag out (antihistamines and epipens have to be carried at all times), and show them her medi-alert bracelet and basically threaten them that if they say something is safe to eat when it isn't, they will be calling an ambulance in 5 minutes time. I'm dreading her going to school!

Congrats Philippa.

Well Done Phillipa!! Your story touches a nerve with most mother's I imagine. Look forward to your feb challenge x