The Word Cloud

I do not think
I can honestly say,
That I have ever cried
More than I did yesterday,
For my gorgeous cat 
Has passed away.

Well, well...who'd have thunk it?

As a relative newbie to The Cloud, I've got to say I'm well and truly settled. Not only that, but this place has managed to bring something out in me that I thought would never see the light of day.

I'm so pleased that I took the time to search out a decent writing community. Look at what I found! A bunch of genuinely brilliant people, all in the same boat as me. Well, with the exception of one or two lunatics who upset the balance a little bit. Still, the Clouders surf the wave and things return to normal. It's a harmonious little corner of the world, this place.

So what has The Word Cloud done for me? It's done a lot. I couldn't even begin to name the many, many people here who have helped and encouraged me and I could never begin to tell them how grateful I am. When you know you should be writing, but you can't/won't, it's such a battle of wills. It really does take someone, or something else to kick you out of it.

I marvelled today at how much 'work' I've done since joining - and I hope this serves as some inspiration to those of you who have just joined and are maybe struggling with getting started. Do not fret, because you will get there.

Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, I had written nothing except for one little poem. Now, I've still got that poem and I'll keep it - if it weren't for the Cloud it'd have been fired in the bin. But I've also written (and re-written) 3 chapters of a novel, teased out and began writing a concept for a series of children's stories, completed 2 short stories and managed to write my first ever article which is going to print next week. All that, because of joining this site. None of those words would have been written without the Cloud. Nothing would be starting for me if it weren't for the Cloud. For those two short weeks, as well as everything from here on in, I will be eternally indebted to this community and everyone in it - not just for the help, encouragement, critique and support I've received but also for the fact that I've been able to read other writers' work. This is so important in identifying your own style and learning to appreciate that of others. I've come across some seriously talented people here, and I sincerely hope that they get the recognition they deserve sooner rather than later.

All Hail The Word Cloud!

... but I dont care ;)

Today I had my parents evening. It was ok but Im here to tell you about the most amazing bit.

When I had my English appointment my English teachers said things like 'You a a the cleverest in the class...Your a pleasure to teah...'

But the best bit:
My coursework folder was chosen to  be send off to the exam board. And the exam board said that my origional writing (story) was 'capturing (or something to that effect)' and well worth and A*. But my teachers also said that the examiners thought my formal writing (persuasive writing etc.) was the best they have seen!
How amazing is that!

(I know I sound a bit vain/cocky, but im just so proud. Its made my year!) :P 

I submitted this a while back, and although a few of you (obviously wrestling with my comments on 'length') - decided to take a peek;  no'one braved it enough to respond.
I know its long, but even some inital words of wizdom, Like - yes/no, etc would mean a great deal.

Thanks in advance!
......................
Hi all,

This is my first 'viewing' of an extremly new write up (new in the sense that I only thought of it a few weeks ago and have been totally immensed since then!)
Its an intellectual, physiological thriller.
Would appreciate feedback on ideas, direction, charactors, plot, pace and understanding.
Warning: It's a bit of a deep read, and there's plenty of it.
Enjoy!

BLURB

Dr Lester Mortabe is a man on the edge.

Alone with only thoughts to occupy the empty hours, is a dangerous persuasion.

And one which serves as a catalyst, which subsequently cements his obsession.

Only on the eve, will he be supplied with the answers to self-fulfilment and truth.

The question is; will he have the foresight and time to discover them before his obsession becomes his bane?

Chapter 1: Shadow

Was it the fear of fear itself that compels this sickness?

Was I deluding my brain into believing there was an answer?

I was slowly going insane. Again.

Would have liked to concede that it was just, but no’ one else seemed to share my lone thoughts.

It was the misery of my life. This certainty. This ever-present awareness of my impending demise.

It followed me like a shadow; shrinking at times, but there. Always there, waiting to grow. Ready to remind me my time was running out.

Forty-two and counting. Forty-two, alone, and waiting for forty-three. It was a vain hope, as I shaved, that the latest wrinkle wouldn’t catch my attention. Even while I considered another day of mindless unapparent wasting and phoney half-hearted social dalliances.

Funny how others are unaware of their own aging. How they accept every crease, the depletion of energy, the balding, the expanding middle. Although if I’m honest, it isn’t so much the physical process that irks me. Not in the visual sense; I was never considered good-looking. It’s the parody of life. The living day-to-day. Feeling it ebb, feeling it ooze out. Having no control.

Yes. That was the worst part. ‘Having no control’. That’s why, for as long as I’ve been able, I’ve been researching a way to ...

Stop it?

Pause it?

Slow it down?

Relive it?

Either or any will do. I can’t accept my lot; my fate.

The cloak that shrouds my true dishonesty is a university. Oxford University to be exact. A fitting disguise for my dagger. Despite the unquenchable thirst that sickens while it pleases, I can never quite curb my interest in the lessons. They look upon me as dogs to an owner with treats. Keen to impress, unable to dull the bright lights which suffuse their eyes like lanterns. They beg for knowledge. No thought given to its implications.

Knowledge is truth.

 

{UNFINISHED}

Chapter 2: Caught

‘That’s right. Cry-o-gen-ics.’ I waited impatiently to be transferred, shuffling assignment papers to pass the time.

‘What? No no. Other.’ Ofcourse I had a terminal disease. We all did.

‘Yes I got it. Tomorrow is acceptable.’ I noted the time on a postit note, missing their next question.

‘Mmm? No – no problem at all. Bye now.’

A horrendous crashing caused me to drop the phone in acute surprise. Venue and hour had been chosen with supreme confidentiality in mind. The risks were too high.

‘Sooorrryyy.’ The perfect English voice of Viola Jennings rang out from the depths of the storeroom.

I rapped my fist against the wall at my side in annoyance. She had the keen ears of a bat. Keen ears, keen eyes and a number of other keen attributes which many had noticed and duly remarked upon.

The seemingly immeasurable wait for her to breeze amicably down from the stores and sweep along the sea of chairs was distressful. She had an easy grace, a gliding walk, that when teamed with a loose skirt usually hailed the pleasing sight of tanned legs.

And there they were, on full display. And for my eyes only.

I turned away. I didn’t need that kind of distraction.

‘Didn’t mean to startle you there Lester.’ Her voice floated from the front seats. ‘I do so hate to be unprepared for my lessons.’ She nodded downward in the direction of her heavily laden arms, full of fresh-scented notebooks and writing aids of all styles and descriptions.

She paused expectantly.

I waited.

‘I have to ask. Is it the big C?’ She adopted a soothing tone ‘You don’t have to say. I shouldn’t even ask, but I couldn’t help but hear.’ She hesitated. Receiving no reply, she carried in. ‘Must be awful, just awful.’

‘The big C?’ I hadn’t a notion, so I concentrated on her avid expression.

‘Cancer.’ She whispered.

‘No need to whisper. I don’t have it.’

‘O, Something else then?’ Her brow furrowed, but her eyes remained hopeful of even a speck of gossip.

‘Yes – something else. Can we ...? I really need to get on.’ I bowed my head to dismiss her.

She hesitated for a few seconds. The dog metaphor included her also; a dog with a ripe and juicy bone. She finally let go and waltzed from the room. Her skirt flapped against her thighs, indicating a dramatic exit. It also indicated an outpouring in the Tutor’s lounge.

My fingertips drummed against the cherrywood desk, nails tapping out a consistent rhythmic gallop. Damm, blast and damm again! I shouldn’t have answered. I should have delved deep for something emotional and creative. I was usually so adept at thinking on the spot. A master some might comment. My nightmares of late were disrupting my seven-hour regeneration slots. Logical thought was a valuable asset indeed. If that evaded my grasp, I had no hope of keeping it under wraps.

I was grouchy, tired and frankly, apprehensive as hell. Tonight was the support group session I dreaded with an intensity that defied reason of any kind. I deplored them. Abhorred them. But no excuse was ever enough to violate the terms; I attend the sessions, I get the drugs.

Chapter 3: The Group

Therapy they call it. What part exactly is therapeutic?

As I ventured towards the front desk, serviced by the usual insufferable and knowing receptionists, I say the words which begin my all-apparent embarrassment.

‘Thanatophobia Support Group.’

Then it’s the prolonged and intermittable wait.

The curious sector of my brain; the obtrusive one, allows the question to burst into conscious thought – What is she thinking? It strikes me, as it always does on these occasions, that for all my self-restraint and learning, I cannot quite stifle this reflexive response. It’s ingrained. Human. I push it aside with disgust. Not quite disguising the tight press of my lips.

She finally looks up. Tired eyes, forced to slit by the weight of a think wedge of emerald green powder. Face worn and devoid of compassion, or indeed any emotion. I could have been expressing my view on the weather.

‘Name?’

‘Dr L. Mortabe.’

‘What does the initial stand for?’ Her eyes and voice were bored. This conversation could be a recording for all the interest in inspired.

‘Lester.’

‘Thanatophobia Support Group. Room three.’

I winced as she informed. The clinical response teamed with the words gave them too much attention. She looked me full in the face for the first time. That curious sector was rearing its ugly head again, trying to read her.

‘Next!’

Her attention span was obviously as limited as her vocabulary.

I moved aside.

The nausea lounging in the background chose that moment to rise like an erupting volcano. The heat rising from the pit of my stomach climbed with surprising ease. Only luck could have supplied the doorway to the male toilets within my line of sight. I threw myself at it with a speed a four year old would envy.

Blinded by purpose, I deposited the remains of a skeleton breakfast, thankful that my eagerness had not hindered my accuracy.

‘That’ll be all the badness coming out.’ A voice boomed from up high.

It took a few muzzy seconds to realise that the voice wasn’t in my head, but above it, and not some physiological response formulated by depredation and despair.

‘I’m Geoffrey. Geoffrey Spencer.’

I turned my head weakly, angling it to eye my observer. Despite my wary expression and the situation of our meeting, Geoffrey appeared perfectly at home. He dropped a friendly hand, spreading his thick fingers and thumb close to my crouching form. Uncertainty stilled my own response in his favour. Perhaps as a counter-response to hide my inaction, or as per his own omission, he snapped his fingers into a fist and retracted it.

‘Best not.’

Wiping my mouth with a tissue, I belched, spat into the bowl and flushed. I wasn’t ready to stand just yet. Another bout could well be imminent.

The drilling eyes of Geoffrey served as a reason to clamp my jaws and asphyxiate.

‘It’s not so bad you know.’

‘It is.’ I muttered too quickly, fighting back a reflux.

‘No. Really.’ He emphasized the ‘Really’, obviously using a misguided formula, resulting in the thought that this was first-time nerves.

Geoffrey snorted so loudly through his nose, that I looked up.

‘Well, this is a funny place to start a friendship, if ever there was one!’ He exclaimed. He looked about him in wry amusement and roll after roll of belly-aching laughter poured from him.

I suddenly stopped feeling sick and found the corner of my right lip inch upwards. I always felt so desolate at these groups. An unwitting passive observer. While other members clung together in groups; their shared dementia a common ground for friendship, I was inevitably cast out like an outsider. And there I was thinking we were all outsiders. The outsiders’ outsider. Could someone be any more unaccepted?

‘Phew – so, you gonna hock up anymore, or you set to brave it like the big boys?’ He grinned down from his toilet-tower, elbows over the edge and hands locked.

‘Bet you’re not so big with your feet on the ground.’ I slung back quietly. As ribbing went, it was a terrible one, and not well thought out. I blamed that on many reasons – my lack of social ability on a personal level, the place and reason of our interaction, and the balance of power. That last thought was the one to make me spring to my feet and vacate the cubicle. One thing I hated above all things was being the powerless one.

‘O’ haw haw. Like that is it?’ He chuckled gamely and jumped from the toilet seat.

I washed my face at the communal sink, noting the grime etched into the plaster. It was making me feel queasy again to remember where I’d been a moment before and imagine the grime there. I stared at my face in the mirror above the sink while drying it with my jumper sleeve. My cheeks stood pronounced against an ashen face. My eyes were bulging, bleary from a sleepless night. I looked like …. I daren’t say it.

Geoffrey was directly behind me frowning. His mouth puckered and moved in a circle.

I coughed to distract him. Our eyes locked in the mirror.

‘You know, I’ve got a feeling I might have seen you before.’ He frowned again.

‘I’ve been told I’ve got one of those faces.’ I hedged. I was a regular at these sessions, but as everyone else developed an instantaneous curability, I never met them twice.

‘Then again, I was out of it so long, it took me weeks to realize my wife had left me.’ He laughed self-consciously and sighed. ‘Shall we?’

 

{UNFINISHED}

Apparently, in excess of 41 000 British White Skins alone are expected in Port Elizabeth during the soccer world cup this year. Crikey.  South Africa better stock up on sun protection. Sales are going to be going through the roof.  

 

Not only that but I have just been asked to provide accommodation for 34, potentially 50 people for 2 nights during that time. Yeah, pirouetting 3 times clockwise before swooning was my first reaction too.  Then I jumped up and with arms akimbo, declared stoutly: ‘I can bloody do this!’

 

So I phoned up old Mr ***. He’s the pastor who handled the burning of daddy (or cremation if you want to word it all nice like.)

 

Asked him if he wouldn’t mind sparing the graveyard for a night or two. He told me that not everyone might be as keen as me to sleep in such a place (even on the loveliest of evenings) but the church hall was available. I was rather disappointed. Have you no idea how beautiful and peaceful cemeteries actually are? You’d have the best night’s sleep ever. Maybe.

 

Anyway, I’ve got the boring old church hall, now I’ve got to find camp beds and bedding for the masses. Not sure how to go about getting it. There’s someone who has a coffin factory (very good business to have in SA btw) but I suppose that wouldn’t be appropriate either. Don’t see why not. We’re all going to be landing up in one sooner or later, why not try one out for size whilst you’re still alive? Live a little, people.     

Promotions not from north

South, east, or west,

It comes from above

The Lord knows best.

Gods got all the plans

In his mighty hands,

And what if he wants it

To work through a black man.

No one thought they’d ever see

An afro-American elected to be,

A man of colour on capital hill

The first black president, Oh what a thrill.

Ancestral spirit of freedom fighters

Raging since captivity,

Way down the ages to this time

No real sense of liberty.

But now on this dawn

Of the first black president

American and commander-in-chief,

A gentle breeze fills up the air

Which feels like sweet relief.

The injured slave expires

Exhaled and breathed no more,

When he saw the future brighten

Upon a distant shore.

Pioneers, prophets and progenitors

Have prophesied from afar,

Tired and worn from the struggle

They predicted a rising star.

Abraham Lincoln proclaimed

On the 1^st of January 1863,

That all slaves should be freed

Within the confederacy,

“Those who deny freedom to others “he said;

Deserve it not for themselves,

So emancipation was issued

Slavery dusted from the shelves.

A racist actor named John Wilkes Booth

Disagreed with what he said,

And one good Friday in a theatre

He shot Lincoln in the back of his head.

Martin saw the prophecy in a dream

And practiced what he preached,

He too was laid out on the ground

Murdered for righteous speech.

Paul Bogle, Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley

These heroes are gone before,

But their inspiration helped us

To push open this iron door.

The roll call of freedom fighters

Is a never ending page,

Just looking back in my history

Makes me feel enraged.

During the presidential elections

I heard some people say,

“we don’t want a black president

So we’re voting for McCain today,

What can Obama do for our country they say

Will he choose the right team?

And how can a man of colour

Understand the American dream.

Black people have been stamped on

Pushed out, enslaved and spat upon,

The welcome doormat colonialists walked on.

From poisonous serpents we’ve been bitten

By fangs filled with Racist remarks

She sat down in the bus that day

The brave woman Rosa Parks.

The whole world feels a ripple

When America suffers a quake,

And this tidal wave election

Caused cynical minds to break.

And so the earth will change for good

For better or for worst,

The American people have spoken

A new era, chapter and verse.
 

Nothing is easy

But only time will tell,

Pray for the new black president

That he’ll serve the people well.

Many snares will try to hinder

And some folks won’t understand,

But almighty God who put him there

Will shield him with his hands.

It seems that bargains have nostalgic effects on humans. You will see how people mob over sales. Responsive they become every time announcements for big cut-rate prices are being done regardless whether it’s by big malls, small boutiques or online shops.

Are you contented with the bargain prices that you are getting from your clothes shop? Anyways, how do you define contentment when it comes to purchasing clothes? Contentment can only be felt once you know that your cloth is a work of quality, an object of comfort and an element of style and yes prices justifiable.

Now, where to buy bargain clothes? In the traditional market, big bargains occur in shopping centers, retail stores and boutiques. Bargain means bargain, everything is under priced but if you think that it’s the last best offer, you are definitely wrong, a better offer still exist.

If you are mad about bargain clothes, the wholesale market is just the right stop over for you. Wholesale clothes pose a more favorable effect on the side. If you think that your retail store offers the lowest price ever, you might be surprised to find how wholesale breaks the record.

Smart shoppers prefer buying bargain clothes in wholesale stores rather than having it individually purchased on retail clothing shops. Just imagine how big savings you are about to get, remember that every cent should take a long journey. Though the product goes Bulky, wholesale clothes come in the package of numerous pieces arranged according to its classification and style. So next time you look for a more favorable clothing option make wholesale clothes your first consideration. You can never get rid of pretenders, and potential spammers, they may act as if they wasn’t a copy cat but just be aware.

Ok, let's see now... ummm, nope, I think this one's clean... no warnings necessary... you could read this to your five year old as a beddy-time story. You are ok with bed wetting and four am nightmare screams though, yeah? No? Riiiight... well, this is probably not for you then, after all. Or your five year old. Fuck it. Make me laugh What is it that makes you laugh? Not biologically, I mean literally. And not one of those blasé “oh, yes, he always makes me laugh” throwaway’s accompanied by the little white lie “laugh” – because, let’s face it, “he” actually rarely makes you smirk, let alone smile and a laugh just isn’t going to happen. And besides, if you “always” laughed, I’m pretty damn sure you’d be in danger of popping a blood vessel or ten, or dying from lock-jaw-ache or the inability to breathe. Or something. I know I can’t. Breathe, that is. When I’m laughing; I go scarlet in the face and my blood pressure pops a vein in my eyeball. S’true. I write all this stuff dead-pan. Of course, it’s rarely-laugh-out loud funny, but there you go. Now shut up and read. Why is it so hard for me to find a funny author? I don’t want a joke book, I don’t want a “light-hearted” romp through medieval England; I want a snot-propelling, vein-popping oh-my-god he can’t say that novel the like of which just does not exist outside of Frankie Boyle’s autobiography. Oh, and I don’t want a bloody autobiography either. How hard can it be to write funny? Is it that it isn’t hard but that there is just no pigeon hole for it in Waterstones? “Sheldon Wortley? Yeah, he’s in the puerile section of humorous fantasy fiction with a heavy sexual overtone and bad language and violence; aisle fourteen, left hand side, top shelf, of our London mega store… sorry.” I’m figuring I may be the first author to be forced to have an 18 certificate for political incorrectness. But even so, how bad is it that no-one can really propel a novel based purely upon making us laugh? There are so many avenues to explore, humoristically, that it becomes strange to me that genres do not have a tiered approach to seriousness. With situation comedy being rife on TV, why isn’t situationally funny science fiction more prevalent? Or forget about the situation, what about the incompetence of the lead character? I mean, how hard is it to write fiction from the perspective of a complete twat? Is it because, in theory, the reader must empathise with the hero? A weak hero turns the reader off and that is obviously bad. But a div of magnitude 40 on the “prichter” scale doesn’t have to be weak; they just have to be un-pc. I am warming to the political incorrectness more and more as I must have some innate trigger that makes anything that is just plain wrong exceptionally funny. (Don’t get me started on the use of the term “retard” as a nominative declaration of undying admiration in our current jobsworthian dystopia.) Although I am fed up with typing political incorrectness and PI just doesn’t cut it as a suitable acronym. PI is, however, an accurate acronym, but I could round in circles all day with this one. See? Not very funny was it? Almost contrived, and I think that alone is another reason why I cannot find a funny author; they tend to try too hard; you can almost see the gag coming from twelve pages away and the longer it takes you to get there the more you cringe until you get to a (and this is, thanks to climate change, the phrase of the century…) tipping-point where your desire to read on is overwhelmed by your desire to flush the book down the loo, to hell with the library’s late-return fees and thankfully the lack of any “why is this book soggy and smells faintly of wee?” fee. (EzBird did it again, by the way; (not flushed a book down the loo but…) for Christmas I got a nice shiney new Dan Brown book – the lost symbol, obviously – and with it came the caveat “must read it by the weekend.” Oh? Why is that light of my life? “Coz it’s got to go back to the library…” Ahhh. Gotcha.) I have a steely determination to retain a couple of things in Paradise Falls that, to this day, nearly three years on, make me laugh out loud: When something obvious is pointed out to Sariro, the hero…, he replies (as do I) “You know, you’d think I would…” and this has been marked as “annoying” for its many appearances throughout the text. But the thing that makes me laugh most and the one piece that I would re-write the whole novel around if I had to, was a segment of battle where a weak lad is surprised to find he holds the only sword between him and his adversary whilst an on-looking crowd drop into stunned silence. He looks at the sword, he looks at his attacker, he looks at his sword and then looks to the crowd whereupon one of his erstwhile colleagues screams “fucking twat him with it!” and a small farcical demi-execution is played out. Unsuccessfully, I might add. See, you don’t get that raw, gutter humour in the novels I have read. There may, of course, be a bloody good reason… So, lovely people wot read my drivel; off you go then – what book has made you snort? What fiction has you keeping your spouse (not partner – because obviously you’ll not be reading with them, eh? Eh? Eh? Know what I mean? Eh? Yeah, EzBird tends to read… during. Short sentences mostly. Sigh.) up late at night whilst you annoy them with your cackling and worry them into intense concentration whilst they work out whether the bed is rhythmically vibrating due to your laughter or due to your smutty ministrations? Your mission, should you accept it is to name a book – preferably science fiction, could be fantasy fiction – that makes me laugh out loud and I’ll… I’ll… laugh and say thank you afterwards… I warn you, though. I’m a prolific reader and Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Jasper Fford (thanks EmmaD… whatever happened to EmmaD?), Richard Ranking and Tom Holt are all well worn out with my demands. Oh and I have read “Spindle” by Ian Taylor which was the last time I ever really did snort mucousously. Ez

 " It’s midnight on 14 June, 1310, the eve of the Feast of San Vito. The conspirators are gathered at Marco Querini’s palazzo at Rialto. Around the table are Marco and Piero Querini, Marco’s son-in-law Bajamonte Tiepolo and many others. They’re planning to kill Doge Pietro Gradenigo and take over the city. If all goes according to plan, Venice will be theirs just before dawn. The men decide on three separate strikes at the heart of the city. Routes are planned. Strategies are agreed. They embrace, and hurry to their assignations. Unbeknownst to them, there’s a betrayer in their midst …"

Our friend and star WW editor, Michelle Lovric, is giving the Venice in Peril Lecture and the Royal Geographical Society at 7pm, Tuesday 1 June 2010. Tickets £20. Phone (0)20 7736 6891 to book. Any WCers interested should paddle along ...

I know this might be confusing, because this part is the beginning, and the first bit was chapter two or maybe three- that's just the way I write. 

As a teenager, Tracey thought she’d suffered traumas, typical teenage stuff: being dumped by some spotty drummer in a school band, bad home hair-dye jobs, not having the latest fashion for a night out with the girls, but in reality her life had been near perfect up until two weeks ago.  It was only then she realised what a death could do to you and only now discovered there was nothing she could do about it.  All her choices had been taken.

 

The crematorium was fairly new, bright and clean – no dark stone corners where cobwebs and dust might lurk.  The service, non denominational.  He spoke of a brief life of love and laughter, a life of innocence and light, surrounded by family.

 

Tracey’s mother and father sat either side of her.  Their presence like a wall, supposedly there to keep her up, but it was so oppressive she could barely carry the weight of it.  Her dad, stoic, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward.  Her mum, wet faced, exhausted, shaken to the core.  

 

You don’t expect to bury your child, but less expected is that you bury your grandchild. 

 

When the final music started up, Tracey felt her mum begin to shake next to her.  She couldn’t help her, she, herself, couldn’t move for fear she let loose her own emotions.  The curtains closed and the tiny white coffin disappeared.  Tracey’s head burned, she had a fever in her that could melt a glacier.  It had started with a red spot at her left temple and grown to a boiling, spitting cauldron of hate and revenge that tensed her muscles, ground her teeth and mashed her aching fists into so many inanimate objects she had the hands of a street fighter.  

 

‘Let this be over soon.’ she screamed inside.

 

The music was drifting in and out of her senses.  Had she chosen it?  She couldn’t remember being asked.  She gripped the back of the pew in front of her and bowed her head.  ‘You were my home, Carla.  My place of refuge.  My darling Babygirl.  I’ll keep you in my heart, my head, my mouth, nose, and ears - you will be here with me forever, I’ll keep you safe from now on.’  Tracey mouthed the words as snot and tears dripped off the end of her nose, she repeated them over and over until her dad took her hand and told her they had to leave the crematorium.