Winner of short story competition

The winner of our latest short story competition is Robert Ronsson with his entry 'The Flood Barrier', which is very appropriate at the moment!
If you want to see more details go to our web-site of http://www.buttonbridgebooks.co.uk/ or of Robert's other work at http://www.robertronsson.co.uk/ , he is soon to publish a new book.

He wins a copy of one of our titles by Deborah Clarke - 'Songs From The Secret Place - The Meeting of the Spirits'

Here is is - enjoy!

The Flood Barrier


"German design, German engineering, Tix. They're the only ones could have done it."
"It’s incredible," I said. "How much water is it holding back?"
"Must be millions of gallons. The forces will be immense. It's flowing past, not hitting the barrier face on but nevertheless ..."
John's voice trailed away. I looked out over the top rail of the temporary barrier, which was about shoulder height. This side, the cobbles of the roadway were damp but our feet were dry. On the other, a waist-high, hoof-less stampede of mud-thick water charged blindly to the sea. It swirled with the muffled hum of jet engines inside a sleepy 747. There was an occasional slurp as a hidden current collided with another deep in its living mass. The roadway vibrated through the thin soles of my high heels. It wasn't only the winter evening making me shiver.
"Worth the trip, Tix?" John looked down at me, his voice pitched high and his face lit with a boyish grin.
"OK, you win. I didn't believe. But this ... this is something else," I said.
We had travelled down that afternoon. The Beemer's headlights and wipers had worked full-pelt to drag us through the curtains of rain. While we were unpacking, the sky had lightened and now in the crisply damp darkness we stood in front of our Tudor-beamed riverside accommodation buttoning up for a stroll before dinner.
John took my hand and we swung along together separated from the surge only by the confection of stanchions, plates and bolts. John sprang on his toes. My scepticism had been as well-rooted as the trees that were being borne downstream. As we walked, he explained how the barrier could be erected within half a day and now gave the town's residents year-round protection.
We took the pedestrian arch under the 200-year-old bridge. I wondered fleetingly whether the barrier's designers had taken into account how the ancient stonework would be subjected to new forces created by the river's containment on one side. Of course they would, John would say if I asked him. They're German.
We stopped again to look at the view across the river. The smell from the chip shop sharpened my appetite. I shivered beneath my thick coat and clapped my hands. The strangeness of our lower bodies being below the waterline made the damp more bone-piercing.
The bank on the other side boasted no barrier and we could see threads of reflected orange from the street-lights where the river had spilled onto the road. Cars splashed down its centre creating waves on both sides. As they turned on to the incline of the bridge, their headlights speared the black sky.
"I'll just check the car's OK and we'll go back," John said. He led the way through the town to the car park beyond the barrier. We double-checked the encroaching water wouldn't maroon his precious Beemer and then wended our way down an alley back to the inn. Its Christmas-lit windows drew us in along shafts of red and gold.
We went into the bar and while John stood waiting to order I thought about my answer. My best friend Ruth couldn't keep it to herself when John had asked her to help him choose a ring and I knew it would be tonight. I felt my face flush in the room's warmth - I could put it down to the open fire. John was everything I had hoped for. He was fit, bright and he made me laugh. He pressed all the right buttons. Good job in a computer consultancy - he'd never be made redundant like my dad had been. He owned the flat I'd been virtually living in for the past three months. Did I say he was fit? I knew the answer – yes; he pressed all the right buttons.
"Will you marry me, Tix?" John's blue eyes shone. The restaurant was hot and thankfully most of the tables were now empty. He was so earnest. How could I not love him?
We sealed our engagement against the noise of the heaving river racing beneath our window. As we slept, the flood-water strained to break through on our side so it could spend a night on the town as had been its custom for centuries.
It was still dark when I woke to the new sensation of a band round my finger. The room was hot. The duvet, which had been so comforting going to bed, now lay round my legs like desert sandbags. I took a jumper and jeans into the bathroom and dressed in the light of the shaving mirror. John's tousled hair was just visible on the flowery pillow. He snuffled as I kissed him on the forehead. I picked up my coat and clicked the door shut behind me.
I pulled my belt tighter as I stepped onto the cobbles. No further panels had been added to the barrier but the water was at least a foot higher. It glinted with silver edges in the fading moonlight as eddies switched and crossed the stream but never interrupted the career southward.
I retraced our route to the bridge, this time climbing the steps to the roadway. I was alone. The shop fronts were dark. It was too early even for the church clock to be chiming the Sunday quarters. There were signs telling motorists to turn back. The road on the other side of the bridge was now impassable.
I went to the parapet over the middle of the river and watched the unstoppable passage of water and flotsam as it sped into the misty distance. To my right the barrier sliced a cliff-edge of river down to the walkway. It made an unnatural perpendicular as if space had been inverted. On the other side, the water scurried into pockets and corners seeking new sensations, new places to spend time. It was taking a diversion before rejoining the scrambling migration.
Time stopped. A sort of hypnosis set in and my body became one with the life-form thrashing beneath the ancient arches.
"Hey! Stay there! I'll join you."
I looked back towards the inn expecting to see John. My heart dipped. The road was empty.
"Ouch! That's freezing!"
I swivelled round. A man was paddling through the flooded roadway onto the bridge. His jeans were rolled up to his knees but not far enough to escape the darkening stains as his bare feet sloshed in and out of the water. He was carrying a small knapsack in both hands at shoulder height
He emerged and rolled down his jeans. He walked gingerly towards me on bare feet. His brown eyes were bright beneath curtains of black hair that fell either side of his forehead. I guessed he was about the same age as John. He looked down at me as if we were meeting again after years apart. I'd never seen him before.
"I thought I'd be on my own this time on a Sunday morning." He pulled open the top of the bag. "Coffee?"
I shook my head. I looked back towards the inn. Some of the bedrooms were showing lights. Was one of them ours?
"I make it strong. There's more than enough for two." He danced from foot to foot. "My feet are bloody freezing. I shouldn't have done that. I only came to look at the floods. Then I saw you ... I couldn’t help myself."
"Hold on a second," I said. I ran back to the bridge-closed sign. A workman had discarded some corrugated plastic packing. I took it back and laid it by the stranger's bare feet. They were almost as blue as the plastic. The first thing I really noticed about him was an absence. There were no sprouts of hair on his big toes.
"Stand on that," I said.
He bowed. "Thank you, kind lady." He straightened up and offered his hand. "That's better. I'm Tony, by the way."
"My name's Victoria. Everybody calls me Tix."
He rubbed his palms together. "Thank you, Tix. Now, coffee."
He took out a flask with two small cups. He placed them on the parapet and poured. The steam swirled into the lightening day.
I took a cup in both hands. The heat seeped through my gloves. "Thanks for this." As the first taste stung my lips I remembered I had refused when he offered it.
"Bacon sandwich?"
I shook my head and watched my breath make a pattern.
"Go on. I've made too much for just me. Eyes bigger than. I decided when I saw you alone on the bridge ... somehow ... I don't know ... you must be here for me. Whatever, you could at least help me eat my breakfast." His eyes locked on to mine and I looked away as I nodded.
There was silence. I had taken off a glove to pick up half of the sandwich. I bit into a mouthful of salty, unctuous bread. I washed it down with the bitter heat of coffee.
"Where did you come from, Tony? I didn't see a car arrive."
"I'm parked over there." He pointed to a sleek little sports car, Italian, parked on the edge of the flood. His abandoned shoes were pigeon-toed next to the driver’s door.
"I saw you come to the top of the bridge,” he said. “I was sitting there about to tuck in. When I saw you ... another flood freak, I thought."
I looked down at the writhing bulk churning beneath us. "It is amazing."
"And to think some people come to see the barrier not the river. It's like going to the zoo to see the bars instead of the animals."
"Yes." I pictured John asleep in our warm bed and shivered. Tony put out a hand and withdrew it as I leaned away from him.
"She's out on this damp morning to see the river like this ... swollen, breaking out ... powerful. It's something we have in common, I thought. We're soul mates. The least I can do is share my breakfast."
I held up the cup. "And very appreciated it is, as well."
"Anyway, Victoria ... Tix. Why are you here?" he said.
I swallowed the last salty gobbet. "I came with my boyfriend. My fiancé. We got engaged last night."
"Congratulations," he said. His voice was flat. The breeze made his eyes water.
"Doesn't look like we're soul mates after all," I said. "Or your timing would be better. It looks like you're just too late." I smiled.
He skipped only one beat. The cold made him look so serious. "Or, just in time," he said.
"I ought to be getting back," I said, turning to look at the inn. There was a figure in the doorway.
"Wait there," he said. He was already hopping back towards the flood rolling up his jeans as he ran.
"Why?" I called after him.
I caught his response over the sound of the river. "You'll see when I get back."
"You’re mad," I shouted. My words carried out over the parapet and joined the ripped-up hostages from up-river lives floating away downstream.
I wiped my mouth with the sandwich wrapping and put my gloves back on. The last dregs of coffee were cold but I welcomed the taste like an addict.
He came back carrying a book. He had the look of an eager puppy. "It’s just … I've nobody else to give this to. I'd like you to have it." He thrust the book towards me.
I read its title, Memoirs of a Shido-Joshu. The sub-title was, An English Teacher in Japan. The author’s name was Tony Robertson. I looked at the picture on the back cover. The author was standing in front of me.
"It's the first copy. I got it yesterday. It's officially published next month," he said.
"You're a writer." I said.
"Only if it sells. I'll teach again if it doesn't, here in the UK ... or maybe Europe, I don't know. I'm sort of at a cross-road. I'll let the fates decide."
"I can't take this," I said. "Not if it's your only copy."
"Seriously, you can. You must. Like I said, it's fate. Don't you think things are pre-determined? When a raindrop falls in the river in Shrewsbury it doesn't have any choice but to go with the flow and be spat out into the sea at Bristol. I thought it may have been like that ... when I saw you on the bridge. That's why I was so affected."
He shrugged, showing his open palms. "OK. It looks like I was wrong ... but there has to be some element of fate in our meeting. When a river floods, it leaves its course but only fleetingly - it always has to go back."
I laughed. "You sound like you picked up some Japanese philosophy while you were there." My hands trembled as I held the book. "OK, I'll take it. But only if you think of something appropriate to write in it for me - a Japanese proverb perhaps. A dedication. Is it a deal?"
He thought for a second. There was twinkle in his eye. He smiled and the way he looked made me think I had better head back to the inn. "Deal," he said. "But you must promise not to look until you’re back where you're staying." He took out a pen and as he wrote, his face creased with concentration. "I was thinking on my way back to the car ... what I said about going to the zoo and seeing the bars. I don't want you to think I go to zoos. I think they're cruel."
"So do I," I said.
"But I did work in the Safari Park once ... the one down the road. It was my summer job when I was at college. I was on the gates to the monkey enclosure. I should have said that coming here to see this ...” He waved the pen in the direction of the river. "Seeing this and just marvelling at the barrier, well … it's like being more interested in the gates than the animals. Maybe that analogy works better."
"You needn't have worried,” I said. "I didn't think you were a zoo freak anyway."
Tony took my gloved hand. His fingers were long like a musician's. "Well, Tix, au revoir." He handed me the book. "Remember, you're not to open it until you get back to your hotel. Promise?"
"Promise."
John was still in bed. I slipped the book into my bag and woke him.
"Where have you been?" he asked as he touched my cheek.
"For a walk," I said. "I stood on the bridge to watch the river. It's higher than yesterday."
"Don't worry, Pumpkin," he said, stroking my face with the back of his hand. "That barrier can take it."
We ate breakfast at the same table where John proposed. He called it our table. "We'll come back here for all our anniversaries and always sit at this table," he said.
"What about today?" I said. "What shall we do today?"
"What do you want to do?" he said.
"Did you know there's a Safari Park near here? We could see the animals."
"If you like," he said. "But I think you'll find it's closed for the winter. There's the steam railway. Would you like to go on a train?"
I ignored the train suggestion. "John," I said. I didn’t think I would have the opportunity so soon. I had to work to keep my voice even. "That Safari Park? How do they keep the animals in the enclosures when all the cars keep moving through? I mean, some of those animals are dangerous. What if they escape?"
"You are a silly goose," he said. He smiled. He reached across and put his hand on top of mine. "You worry about the strangest things. They have double-gate system. The gates work in sync so the enclosure is always secure. It's perfectly safe. Look, I'll show you ..."
He moved cutlery round the table top. My mind turned back to the opposite bank, where the river had broken free. It was stretching its wintry toes - blue with cold and surprisingly lacking in ugly sprouts of dark hair - into places it had never been before. What was it Tony said? When a river floods, it leaves its course but only fleetingly – it always has to go back. What did it mean for me?
I went up to pack, leaving John in the lounge catching up with the football reports in the Sunday paper. I felt in the bag for the book. I ran my palm across the front cover, turned it over and did the same to the picture on the back. Such a nice smile, I thought. I opened the book to the title page. There was no Japanese proverb. Tony's dedication was a mere two lines. It said: If I'm just in time rather than just too late, you'll need this. Underneath he had written a telephone number.




--The End—

Deborah's Visions

As a result of much positive feedback from last month’s newsletter about her dream, Deborah Clarke author of ‘Songs From The Secret Place – The Meeting of the Spirits’ has agreed to give us more of her own personal recollections.
One of the comments we had came from Jayne Hall, the winner of our latest short story competiton ‘Human Nature Versus The Spirit Guide’. Jayne whose story is posted on our web-site www.buttonbridgebooks.co.uk was recently featured in the ‘Shuttle & Times’ and had this to say about Deborah’s Dream:

‘I found Deborah’s dream and story very moving and inspirational. We all appear to have our time in the wilderness (even if it sometimes lasts longer than 40 days and 40 nights!) but hopefully find different keys to help us to emerge into the light and are left stronger for having had the experience. Whilst we are in these phases we are disconnected from others, ourselves and our purpose. Deborah’s Dream appears to me a very powerful metaphor for reconnecting to source and remembering that we are all one, all doing our best in the circumstances and situations we find ourselves in, all a glorious mixture of past life, genetic and environmental factors. In her book “Songs From The Secret Place, Deborah begins to explain this process – personally I can’t wait for Book 2 when I hope she goes further. We cannot underestimate the effect we have on other people through our words, actions and life story. ‘

If you missed ‘The Dream’, it can be found at www.buttonbridgebooks.co.uk, or on this blog


VISIONS

As a result of feedback she has had from the dream, Anne has asked me to write about what happened next. Before I start I want to make it clear that this is purely an account of what I experienced, as I experienced it. I offer no interpretation or analysis because where I am now I know that what you, the reader, make of these events, will depend entirely upon your own belief system, your own internal map of ‘reality’. However what I will say is this: it has taken me the twenty years since these events occurred to fully integrate what happened. Only now, as I approach my fiftieth birthday, am I at last completely unconcerned about anyone else’s interpretation. I offer this purely in the hope that by sharing it I may inspire others like me to come out and speak what they know.
In late September 1984 I moved to the little market town of Tenbury Wells to take up a job working in an old style institution run by what was then called The Spastics Society (now known as SCOPE). I was employed to do arts based activities with people who had multiple disabilities, most of whom were wheelchair bound and also had various degrees of learning difficulties and behavioural problems ranging from mild to as bad as it gets. The institution itself was a grand old mansion called Kyre Park, set in gardens landscaped by Capability Brown. It was located in the countryside, six miles from my flat in the town and I used to cycle to and from work everyday. However, having come from living in a city, I was unaccustomed to how dark the nights were in the countryside, there was no street lighting at all on the little country roads and out there, all alone on my bicycle, it was actually quite scary. Several times I ended up in the ditch because the feeble lights on my bike simply weren’t up to the task! However one such night, when I was cursing and wrestling my bike back onto the road, I suddenly became aware of the heavens above me. It was a pitch black, crystal clear, moonless night and the glorious panorama of the star filled sky suddenly grabbed my attention. As I stood there, gazing up in awe, every fibre of my being started to vibrate like a tuning fork. I got goose bumps all over, my hair stood on end, my heart started pounding and, as I stood there utterly transfixed, I knew with absolute certainty that the sky was trying to tell me something. It was the most extraordinary experience but it was not the first time it had happened. As a child I’d had the same experience but, because this and many other out of the ordinary experiences had been dismissed as ‘imagination’, ‘making up stories’ and even ‘telling lies’, I had grown up to dismiss them myself. There was no dismissing this though and, when it happened several more times over those next two months, the only question I had was ‘Why? Why is this happening again?’ Then on New Year’s Eve 84/85, something even more intriguing happened. I was out with my new friend who, to protect his privacy, I will call Steve, though ‘new’ is a purely relative term, he was one of those people who you just know you’ve known for lifetimes and you’re simply picking up where you left off. Anyway, it was another of those amazing crystal clear, moonless nights so we decided to drive up to the highest point in the area, Clee Hill, so we could gaze at the stars as the New Year rolled in. At this point I should mention that Steve had had a new car battery installed that very morning so as we sat there, looking at the heavens, the last thing we were worried about was whether the car would start again. We sat there in silence, taking it all in, and once again I began to get this overwhelming feeling that the sky was trying to tell me something. I bought every ounce of my attention to bear, desperately trying to grasp the tantalising echoes and whisperings . . . but then something else started to happen. As I gazed at the stars a sphere of blue and white light appeared, sparkling with scintillating geometric patterns. At first I felt myself pulled by it, as if my whole being was rushing towards it, then suddenly my perception flipped inside out and I thought. “Bloody hell! I’m not rushing towards it, it’s heading straight for me!” And even if I’d wanted to get out of the way I could not have moved fast enough for, even as I realised what was happening, it hit me right between the eyes and passed straight through me as if I was completely transparent! What happened next is a bit vague and fuzzy. I recall being consumed with a strange outpouring of grief and joy in the midst of which I became aware that Steve was experiencing exactly the same thing. When we finally recovered we sat there in silence for quite some time, neither of us knowing what to say, but finally Steve said, “What the hell was that?”
I said, “I’ve got no idea.”
We sat there in stunned silence for a bit longer then Steve turned the ignition with every intention of driving us home but, yes you’ve guessed it, the car wouldn’t start! Brand new battery – dead as a dodo! Again we sat there in silence, not knowing what on earth to think, but eventually we got ourselves together and, with the help of a bunch of very worse for wear New Year revellers giving us a push back onto the road, we freewheeled down the hill and got the car going again. We hoped that was that, the car was going, the battery would recharge, end of story. Next morning however, the car was still dead as a dodo. Now highly perplexed, Steve took the battery back to the garage where they too were totally baffled. It simply would not recharge. They made several attempts throughout the day but all to no avail until, determined to figure it out, they took it to bits and discovered that all the metal components were completely buckled and distorted, rendering it quite useless. We wondered about it for a couple of days then decided to just put it down to experience, but things did not go back to normal for long. A few weeks later, shortly before my twenty-eighth birthday, I was listening to some music one night when something phenomenal started to happen. Now as I’ve already said, I’d had a certain level of psychic experience all my life but I had never experienced anything like this! It felt as if the top had been lifted right off my head and I had been plugged into the very heart of the universe. I cannot describe the intensity of the light or even begin to convey the sheer power of the pure, unbounded love that started pouring through me. It was ecstasy! It rendered me helpless with bliss. It bought me to my knees! And with it streams of information downloaded into me, the very workings of the universe revealed before my very eyes, images and concepts coming so fast that I simply couldn’t keep up. Had it only happened this once I might have been tempted to dismiss it but, over the next two years, it happened again and again and I found myself reading voraciously to try and find a language with which to capture these concepts, I sucked up quantum physics, eastern philosophy, the western mystical tradition, Jungian psychology and more. However, as much as I felt I had been waiting my whole life for this to happen, I was also in total conflict with it, for what this experience revealed to me about myself was radical, it challenged everything I had ever been led to believe about myself and for that reason I was quite convinced that I simply could not be getting the messages right. As a result, I quite frequently found myself jumping up and down in the middle of the room shouting, “No, no, no! This cannot be right! I am Deborah Clarke! I am nobody! This cannot be right!” – or words to that effect. In the end the conflict reached stalemate and I realised that whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to get help, not least because it was starting to make me physically ill. So, to cut a long story short, one day I found myself talking to one of the founders of the College of Healing at Runnings Park in Malvern. In fairness I have to point out that I was always very, very, guarded about what I said at that time, indeed it is only now that I feel comfortable about disclosing the whole truth to anybody. However, I said enough for her to come to the conclusion that I was clearly very psychic but needed to get it under control. This seemed like a reasonable analysis to me, so when she suggested that I consider doing the College of Healing training to learn how to do that very thing, it seemed like a good idea. Needless to say, nothing could have prepared me for what happened during that first week of training. It was on the final night of my stay there that it happened, although things had gradually been building towards it throughout the whole week. I’d had a lot of healing by then but far from closing me down it was opening me up even more. I did not sleep for the entire week so great was the energy shift that was building. But I was still fighting, still refusing to give in and then, on that final night, a very lovely man who I will call Benedict offered to give me a massage. I thought, ‘What the hell. I need something’ and so I agreed. All went well for about half an hour, it was exquisite, such utter and blessed relief, but Benedict became very perplexed by the amount of tension in my lumbar/sacral area. Apparently my buttocks were like rock and he began uttering more and more earnest injunctions to ‘let go’ until in the end I thought ‘Ah, what the hell, I surrender’. With that I let go and the most extraordinary thing began to happen. Phenomenal heat exploded in my coccyx and started rising up my spine. I remember thinking, ‘Oh my God, this is kundalini, I’ve read about this!’ And, set in motion, there was no stopping it, not that I had any desire whatsoever to stop it. I tell you sisters; it rocked! Talk about orgasm! Imagine the most gut busting orgasm you’ve ever had and multiply it by infinity! But it’s not exploding outwards, it’s exploding up, up through your entire being, blasting every bit of resistance right out of the way and blowing your head right off! And that’s just for starters! Now I had no head there were no limits and I was flying, flying out of the room, soaring way above Malvern, winging my may through the stratosphere, and as I went I grew and grew and grew, now I was the whole world and every person that had ever lived, a million, billion lives rolling all the way back to the beginnings of civilization, then further back I was every plant species and animal there had ever been, then further back and I was the very mineral formations of this world, then the swirling gasses and the stuff of stars, the energetic matrices of galaxies, the blueprint of the very universe itself, until finally, all forms disappeared and there was nothing, nothing but pure, undifferentiated awareness, pure Presence, a velvet black, glittering Vast in which all of creation rose and fell, everything and nothing all at once.
(And people wonder why Brad Pitt leaves me cold!)
However, how I experienced this is one thing, how those around me perceived it is quite another. They were extremely concerned, they hadn’t got a clue what had happened and I was giving them no response whatsoever, principally because, at that point, there simply was no sense of ‘I’ to bring to the party. All of the hushed whisperings, the mad dashing about and the increasingly urgent calls of ‘Deborah! Deborah say something!” were of no concern, simply forms rising and falling on the face of the Deep. Then there was the awareness of being bodily manhandled and carried to the private house of one of the College tutors where another voice began demanding, ‘Who are you?’ At this point a sense of ‘I’ began to reassert itself though only in as far as to register that the question itself was completely absurd. Nevertheless, I was also becoming aware that if I did not come up with some kind of response I could be in trouble. They were scared, they clearly had no idea what had happened otherwise they would have just let me be. There was nothing wrong, absolutely nothing at all, but that was not how they were seeing it, their minds were creating quite a different story and I realised that my safety depended on finding some way to interface with their script. So with this aim in mind I plucked some words out of the sea of possibilities that I hoped might do the trick. “I am the guardian of the light,” I said, “I am the keeper of the secret knowledge.”
There was a weighty silence then the voice demanded. “Where do you come from?”
Again, this struck me as a totally absurd question but in an effort to oblige I plucked another response out of the ether and said, “Atlantis.”
There followed much earnest whispering and then the voice demanded, “Who are you now?”
Well now I was really starting to get a headache. I felt like a genie being forced back into a tiny little bottle. There was obviously a right answer to this question but I had no idea what it was and the effort of trying to figure it out was extremely painful.
Finally the voice said, “Who are you now, Deborah?”
‘O.K.,’ I thought, ‘so now I know the answer they’re looking for, but who is this Deborah?’ At that point I honestly did not know. However, the interrogation continued, I opened my eyes as requested and finally, with a supreme effort of will, I managed to locate this ‘Deborah’. They were happy then, for now I was giving them the answers they wanted to hear, but even as I delivered those answers I knew that ‘Deborah’ was nothing but a façade, an act, a part that I had been given to play, a role I inhabited in order to conform with how everyone else thought things should be. Now I had always had a sense that this was so but had assumed this to mean that there was something ‘wrong’ with me. Now I knew that there was nothing ‘wrong’ about it at all. It was right. Yes, my feeling had been right all along . . .
The full implications of this understanding did not dawn right then. Not until I went back to work the very next day did it finally hit me. To say it was weird going back to work after what I had been through is an understatement but let’s leave it at that because it’s not the important thing. The important thing is this: I walked back into Kyre Park a fundamentally changed person, my whole perception of myself had been turned inside out and I’ll admit it, I was nervous. What would they make of this new me, how would they react, how would they respond? I’ll tell you. They did not notice a blind, sodding bit of difference! My initial conversations went something like this.
“Hello Deb. Have a nice week off?”
“Amazing! Mind blowing! Absolutely the most . . . .”
“Oh that’s nice. Could you take Alan to the toilet for me?”
“???????????????????????????”
“Hello Deb. Have a good week?”
“It was the most amazing experience of my entire life!”
“Oh lovely, Jean’s waiting for you in the activities centre.”
“????????????????????????????”
You get the general idea. Not a glimmer, not a spark, not even a dim glow on the horizon . . . not, that is, until a little chap called Chris Belsten came wheeling himself down the corridor. Now, of all the residents of Kyre Park at that time, Chris was my number one fan, he adored me, he followed me everywhere, declared undying love every day and frequently proposed marriage. If anyone was going to be thrilled to see me it was Chris, however on that day he took one look at me, turned tail and bolted, just as fast as his wheelchair would carry him. Something about me had obviously frightened him to death. Everyone simply wrote it off as one of his funny turns but I was concerned. I went and found him and once again he tried to run away. He was so scared he couldn’t even look at me. It took me most of the afternoon to gradually win him back, but finally I got through to him and we had a little chat. I waited until I was able to establish eye contact and then I said, “Chris, what’s the problem? Why are you so scared?”
And he said, “It’s your eyes Debs, there’s too much light coming out of them.”
Now that’s when it hit me!
Here was this profoundly disabled man, physical impairment, learning difficulties, behavioural problems, the full works, a man whose opinions about anything were at best received with kind indulgence by the ‘able’ world, and he was the only person who could see that something had changed. He was the only one who noticed.
It was a shock, but my journey into the labyrinth was only just beginning. Over the next weeks and months I discovered that there was no way I could talk about what I had experienced without sounding like a raving lunatic. No words I used were adequate and the more I tried, the barmier it all sounded. In the end the Deborah character’s doubts, fears, conflicts and neuroses started to run the show again but what she didn’t know was that she was fighting a losing battle. Try as she might to fit everything back into nice neat boxes it was never going to happen. I smile now at some of the truly desperate measures I resorted to but once the knowing was there, there was no going back. Slowly but surely it began to work it’s magic, unravelling the web of illusion strand by strand, subversively dismantling every structure I had ever erected from this secret place within, unconscious patterns, ancestral patterns, collective patterns, archetypal patterns – a twenty year journey right into the heart of darkness . . . but that’s another story.

© Deborah Clarke

Deborah's Dream

Deborah Clarke author of 'Songs From The Secret Place - The Meeting of the Spirits' very kindly gave us the details of a dream she had which began the whole process of getting her debut novel written; which we are very proud to have published. Her dream is fascinating reading:

DREAM


When I was twenty-six I had a dream. It came at what was undoubtedly the darkest time of my life. In the previous months I had taken two drug overdoses in an attempt to end a life that I experienced as utterly unbearable. In fact it is only now, twenty-four years later, that I can fully appreciate just what kind of hell I was living in then. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was trying to live a life in complete denial of who I really am. So successfully had I been brainwashed and terrorised into submission by parents, teachers, doctors, preachers and every other servant of the machine, that I had absolutely no idea what else to do but withdraw from the world completely, disappear into a secret place where none of them could find me and pray that someone or something would come to show me the way out of my misery. Perhaps the most terrifying part of it all was knowing that no one had done this to me deliberately, none of the people who had caused me to retreat from the world had consciously and with malice of forethought, set out to make my life hell. In fact they were more frightened of the state I was in than I was and that’s why I knew it was utterly pointless to keep expecting them to know how to help me. My psychiatrist said, and I quote, “You are a classic Marilyn Monroe personality and you will always need a bottle of pills close by you.” This was the best they could offer me, these ‘experts’ these people who ‘knew’ and I realised that if I kept on listening to them it would be the death of me.
So it was that I withdrew and, for an entire year, I barely emerged from the rented rooms I lived in. I had no job, no money, no friends and no idea what I needed, but something deep down inside told me to start paying attention to my dreams. I have always been a vivid and lucid dreamer, both sleeping and waking. I frequently got told off for ‘day dreaming’ at school and so I trained myself to enter my inner world whilst giving all the outward impression of being completely present and attentive. Even so this was a hollow victory, all it did was prove what I already suspected, that no one could see me, no one at all. So long as I provided an acceptable façade that was all that mattered, this other me, this other world that I experienced communion with and the ‘me’ who lived there, all of this was completely invisible to them. This I knew by the age of seven, no wonder then that grew into a deeply troubled adult. Now I know that many of you reading this will be saying, ‘Yes, yes! That’s me, that’s how I felt too!’ But back then I didn’t know there were many others like me, back then I thought I was completely on my own.
But back to the dreams, I started writing them down everyday and very soon it was taking up most of my time. It seemed that now I was really paying attention there was this great sense of urgency, something desperately trying to get through. I became very excited by what I was doing but also scared, for there was this sense of pressure and limited time, this voice inside me saying, ‘You know you can’t sit on your backside doing this for ever, my girl. Sooner or later you’re going to have to go back out there and get a job.’ I didn’t realise it then but that was the voice of my grandmother, one of the many interfering ancestors I have subsequently had to kick into touch and put straight about a few things. They all sat there like a big black cloud over my head, telling me I was just plain idle, that I didn’t know I’d been born, that what I needed was something to really worry about but, while they did their best to try to guilt and shame me back into submission, I held my ground, I had given myself a year and so the race was on. Would I find what I was looking for or would time run out before I got there?
About six months in, the breakthrough happened. I knew it even as I was dreaming it. Even as I write these words I can still feel the power of it, the overwhelming relief and gratitude for the salvation that had finally come. So here it is, this is the dream that changed everything . . .
I was way, way up high, so high up I was above the clouds, clear blue sky above me, sea of clouds rolling away to the horizon below me and a long way off in the distance, rising out of the clouds, a tall golden spire. This spire was my destination, I didn’t know why, I just knew it was where I was going, and as my eyes rested upon it I gently swayed from side to side, rocked by the motion of all those beneath me, for I was right at the top of this pillar of people, each person sitting upon the other’s shoulders as we progressed, with painstaking slowness, towards this distant spire. As I sat there, I knew that this journey had been going on for a long, long, time, so long that I had no memory of anything else, but I was happy, I was serene. Up there, right at the top, I was in my element, nothing to disturb me, nothing to distract me from doing what I did best, my eyes fixed firmly on this vision that only I could see, so that I could relay directions down through the others to the world below.
And then one day the order of things changed. One day a message came up from below, passed up through this long, long chain of people, and in my mind a voice said, “The Walker wishes to meet you.”
I was surprised. Nothing like this had ever happened before. I thought about it for a moment then sent a message back. “What is this? I am the Dreamer. Tell the Walker I cannot go down there.”
For a while everything continued as it always had, desperately slowly, but one step at a time none the less. The vision was in sight, the day would come and that was all that concerned me.
But then it happened again; another message came up from below, the same as before. “The Walker wishes to meet you.”
Now I was disconcerted. Why was this happening again? I sent another message back. “Why this again? I am the Dreamer. I cannot be distracted from the vision. My role is here. This is where I must stay. Tell the Walker I cannot go down there.”
Again everything continued as it always had, but then, yet again, this same message came up from below, “The Walker wishes to meet you.”
Well now I was angry and upset, my equilibrium disturbed. Why was the Walker persisting with this? Why was he doing this to me? I had given him my answer. Why did he refuse to accept it? So I said, “Does the Walker not know who I am? I am the Dreamer and he can’t go anywhere without me. Tell him to stop this, I must not be disturbed.”
The message went down but very quickly the reply came back. “The Walker says he knows who you are and he knows that he can’t go anywhere without you, but he also points out, with the greatest respect, that you can go nowhere without him. He asks you think about this for he will not take one more step until he meets you.”
With that, the whole pillar of people stopped moving and I sat there, overwhelmed with despair. What the Walker said was right, I knew it, but why would he hold me to ransom like this? He knew who I was. He knew that I could not live in the world down below so why did he want to force me to go there? Why did he want to put me through this? I didn’t know, but I did know that it wasn’t just me I had to think about, there were all these others with me and I had to think of them too. If I did not find some way to get us moving again we would never get to our destination and that was unthinkable. They were depending on me and I could not let them down. So it was that with great reluctance I made my decision. “Tell the Walker I am coming to meet him,” I said, and with that, I began my descent. Curling over into a foetal position I handed myself into the arms of the person beneath me and very gently, one by one they began passing me down the column towards the world below. But even before I reached the clouds I was hurting, my body crying out against the increasing dissonance and disturbance growing all around me with each pair of hands I passed through. By the time I’d passed through the clouds I was in terrible pain, the vibration generated by the world below drilling into my very bones, but now I could see a great jungle below me, hot, steaming, seething with riotous colours and sounds, a primordial chaos of jarring discords and screaming feedback. I was in agony and I hadn’t even reached the ground yet, but as I passed through the canopy and got my first glimpse of the jungle floor I could see all these wild, tribal people dancing about the bottom of the column, shrieking and whooping, drums pounding, horns blaring, pipes wailing, so nerve shatteringly loud it made my teeth ache. And then there was the sickening stench, an atmosphere so dense and thick I felt like I was drowning. As I cried out with the pain and gasped for breath my vision was now only a distant dream, all of my resources refocused into fight to breathe, every ounce of my strength redirected into the sheer battle for survival.
At last I was passed onto the jungle floor and as I lay there, utterly helpless, the great column of people came down off each other’s shoulders to join me, focusing their minds to create an aura of calm about me to afford me as much protection from the chaos as they could. I was still in pain, but now I could stand up and look around and I thought, ‘Right, I am here. Where is he?’
In response to my thought, the heaving mass of humanity parted and a great big man emerged, big boned, heavily muscled, head and shoulders taller that the rest of us, guided into the clearing by two tribal people. Well I knew he was the Walker but I was horrified. He was ragged, filthy; his hair matted and caked with mud, his body and face covered in old scars and fresh, bleeding wounds. I could barely make out his features for the filth. He looked more like some abused animal than a man . . . and then he opened his eyes.
To say that I was surprised would be an understatement. I was blown away; completely disarmed. His eyes were blue, sky blue; the exact same colour of the sky that I lived in above the clouds. And they were filled with light, clear, boundless, pristine light . . . I stepped towards him and said, “I am the Dreamer. I am here.”
He reached out towards the sound of my voice, eyes vacantly searching . . . and that’s when I realised he was blind.
The revelation tore at my heart. He was blind . . .!
I collapsed to my knees in tears, overwhelmed with emotion. Now I knew, now I understood why he wanted to meet me. I was his eyes! What I could see clearly he had to take purely on faith and trust yet still, day after day he laboured to carry us, this great big man, right at the bottom of the pillar, the whole burden resting upon his shoulders as he fought his way, step by step, through this brutal, unrelenting chaos. I was shattered, shattered, my whole universe turned inside out. Only now did I realise just how much he loved me. Yes, he loved me! And he wanted to touch me. He could never see what I could see but he wanted to touch my living presence, to know that I was real, to know that the battle he fought every day was not in vain and that I was there for him the same way that he was there for me. How could I have even thought of refusing him this, how could I?
When I looked up again he was gone, but now the others were erecting a beautiful tent all around me, a private, sacred space to make my visit here more bearable. I was deeply touched. I knew they were creating something for me that they had never had themselves. It was cool and fragrant in there and insulated from the noise outside. I waited, knowing now what would happen. Come nightfall they would bring the Walker back to me and we would make love, this was what he wanted, this was what had to happen.
Sure enough, as the moon replaced the sun, the entrance to my tent parted and he stepped inside, but now he had been bathed and massaged with healing oils, the rags and filth were gone and he wore a simple white kilt. His battle scarred skin shone like gold over muscles and sinews honed by the relentless ordeal of carrying us all upon his great, broad shoulders, his long blond hair hung in a braid down his back and, as his light filled, sky blue eyes gazed upon me I knew that he could see me now, but only my outward appearance. He still could not see what I could see and nor would he ever be able to, but that didn’t matter. He knew who I was, I was the Dreamer and he had absolute faith and trust in me and because of that I loved him; I loved him with all my heart and soul.
I smiled and beckoned him to me. He came and lay down beside me and we made love, but there was no lust, no passion, no earth shaking orgasms; just a quiet, gentle merging together into complete and utter bliss. One body, one heart, one mind, one soul – total union.
We stayed like this all night then when the morning came we separated out again but now everything was different. Now there was a new energy, a new life, a renewed sense of purpose and every one was excited to get on with the journey. So it was that the great column reassembled, the Walker with his feet planted firmly on the ground and, one by one, the members of our company climbing back up on his shoulders, each taking their position in the column until, finally, it was my turn and they passed me all they way back up to the top to my place above the clouds. We started to move again, but now we could go so much faster than before, now I had a telepathic rapport with the Walker below and my directions passed to him in an instant, rather than laboriously going through everyone in between. The golden spire still gleamed in the distance but now it was getting closer and closer and, as we stormed along, we began to sing a happy triumphant song. “We’re going home, we’re going home! Yes, yes, yes, we’re going home!” And now I could see that the spire sat atop a great golden dome and, as we got closer still, we broke through the cloud to see a massive pyramid, as tall as a mountain, rising up from the jungle floor, a single, straight stairway sweeping right from its base, all the way up to the dizzying heights of the dome at its apex. A roar of triumphant cheering came up from below. We were nearly there, nearly there! And now we seemed to be flying, speeding effortlessly towards our goal and as we arrived we all tumbled down to ground level again and began racing up the steps to the dome. No matter that the stairway was a mile high; that was nothing to us after the eternity it had taken us to get there. We were up that pyramid in no time at all, streaming through the entrance of the dome and racing out across the floor, the roof of the dome above us, polished black stone beneath our feet, its surface inlaid with a silver circle, and within that circle, a jewelled map of the stars. We all knew our positions, where we should be in this scheme of things, and we arranged ourselves accordingly around the whole circumference of the circle. Finally everyone was ready and now an expectant hush descended, I looked across to the Walker who sat directly opposite me on the other side, all light filled, shining and golden. His scars were gone and he was smiling and as our eyes locked, something started to happen. Energy started to pulse around the circle, a perfectly synchronised clockwise and counter clockwise motion, slowly and gently at first, then gathering in speed and power until it became a persistent pounding throb. The floor of the chamber began to quake and now I realised that this vast building was a vessel, a ship, and the tremors we could feel were it’s moorings unlocking in the earth below . . . and now the pounding, throbbing energy was driving us up, lifting the whole edifice up off the ground below, speed gathering, momentum building, the mounting force driving through us, singing now, the rhythmic pulsing fused into single sound, the sound thrusting us heavenwards, lifting us up, singing us high until, suddenly, we exploded away from the atmosphere and out into the stars beyond. And now the whole edifice fell away, the pyramid, the dome, the circular floor all disappearing into the firmament to leave us hanging there, free, pure beings of light. But we were not alone, oh no, the firmament was buzzing with similar beings all whizzing here and there in dinky little vehicles, brightly coloured little cars and motorbikes with smiley faces, just like children’s toys. I laughed and laughed, I couldn’t believe it. They were travelling so lightly, having so much fun! No wrathful, judgemental, terrorist of a God lived out here. And without exception they were all thrilled to see us there. They didn’t care where we’d come from they were just really glad we’d finally made it. “Welcome to the Universe!” they cried, as they speeded by. “Come on in! Welcome home!”

I woke from this dream in tears, tears of joy at what I had touched, and tears of sadness that I couldn’t stay there. When I wrote it down I was all over the place, I didn’t know what the hell had hit me, but I knew it was what I’d been waiting for. Of course those of you who have read ‘Songs from the Secret Place – Book One’ will recognise some threads of that story here, but at that time I could never have imagined that one day I would write a book. By the age of seven I had experienced enough crushing disapproval, humiliation and, on occasion, severe punishment for ‘telling lies’ and ‘making up stories’ to convince me that I must never, ever voice what I knew to the outside world, and though I wrote that dream down, not long after I destroyed the papers for fear that someone else might read it. However the memory stayed with me and even though I didn’t understand it in any rational way, I knew it was a call for things to change and that if I was ever going to figure out what was ‘wrong’ with me than I had to start going about things in a completely different way. Two years later I had gone a long way towards turning things around, I’d ditched the psychiatrist and his pills, got a new job in a new town, made new friends and got my own flat. I was settled in, sorted and thinking, “Right, what happens now?” That’s when the visions started, but that’s another story . . .

Deborah Clarke – September 2006

Winner of our Short Story Competition

The winner of our summer short story competition is Jayne Hall who lives in Bewdley, Worcestershire, UK. This is her contribution, enjoy!


Human Nature Versus The Spirit Guide


“No, no, no, don’t. Don’t meet him. He’s a terrible flirt and a womaniser. He’ll only be true to you till he gets you into bed and then you’ll just become another notch on his bed post like all the others”.

Asandra noticed that Molly was putting on her best underwear, a skimpy top and swirly skirt. Her make up was applied like a model’s, her hair groomed to perfection and she smelt divine.

“This is dangerous! She’s not listening. How do I get through?” Asandra could tell that planting that nagging doubt in Molly’s head wasn’t working. It was so frustrating at times not being able to communicate in a human conventional way. And of course it was a human’s nature not to pay attention to things they didn’t want to hear. What else could she do? Action was really limited when you didn’t have a physical body or a “speaking out” voice.

Asandra had been assigned to Molly at the moment she was conceived. Her duties to begin with had been to familiarise herself with the family and when the moment came for Molly to emerge into the world, to encourage and help to spiritually push her out into the world.

All of the time Molly was growing up, Asandra had been able to provide little nudges in beneficial directions through the little voice in Molly’s head. Several times it had been necessary to “save” her from danger. Helping cars to “breathe in” to get through gaps, distracting would be assailants with a powerful psychic scream, hiding the tickets or car keys when she was heading into danger.

Mmmm….. hide the car keys. She couldn’t physically do it of course, but for a short while she could “stand in front” of them so that they were invisible to the searcher but were then eventually found exactly where they had originally been left.

There were rules associated with being a spirit guide and Asandra felt the role was actually more difficult and frustrating than being in a physical body. Yes, she’d had lifetimes in that role too and at least as a guide you retained knowledge of these to help you manage your charge.
You had to learn subtlety as a guide, subtlety and suggestion. “Concentrate Asandra, you nearly missed your chance,” she berated herself.

Molly was emerging from her bedroom and Asandra had to scoot (well sort of float actually) down to the kitchen to “sit on” the car keys.

A frustrating 20 minutes later, having made an exhaustive search of the house, Molly found her keys on the kitchen bench just where she thought she had left them. “I swear someone moved them and then put them back,” muttered Molly.

Asandra whispered furiously “Don’t meet him, don’t meet him, don’t go.” She had the satisfaction of Molly saying, “I wonder if not being able to find my keys is a sign.” “Yes, yes,” murmured Asandra gleefully. But her joy was short lived as Molly dismissed her thought and headed out of the door, a little hot as she was now late.

Asandra attached herself to Molly’s right shoulder. She saw Molly move her hand up as if to brush cobwebs off her shoulder. This movement was another source of frustration for Asandra. Molly was obviously aware of her presence but as she didn’t believe in “unseen things” of course she thought there must be some physical reason for the sensation on her shoulder.

They arrived at the wine bar on the High Street, a mere 10 minutes past the time Molly had arranged to meet Christian. This of course involved driving at break neck speed and parking in an illegal parking space. Asandra offered up a silent prayer for the deliverance of her charge and was pleasantly surprised when their first view of Christian was wrapped around a busty blonde woman.

He’d arrived 20 minutes early for the rendezvous and of course, given half an hour, he’d virtually got the blonde’s undying love and more importantly was close to access to her bedroom.

Molly stopped dead and surveyed the scene, clearly not impressed. She hadn’t had a date in months and had really thought Christian seemed promising. It looked as if other people thought the same! Molly made an instant decision (much to Asandra’s relief) and turned on her heel and left.
Asandra got ready for the recriminations and of course they came. Molly began berating herself as soon as she got into the car (which by some miracle had escaped a parking ticket). Part of her was of course angry with Christian, but the other half began a woeful tirade. “I’m not good enough”, “I’ll never find a man”, No-one will want me.” Why do humans do this reflected Asandra, someone else acted badly and they assumed it was all their fault.

Molly drove straight to her friend Maria’s house and, snivelling over a coffee, dished the dirt on Christian and held a post mortem on all her previous relationships. When sanity began to return Molly said to Maria “You know I’ve had a little voice in my head all day telling me not to meet Christian because he was a loser. I just didn’t want to listen”. Asandra thought that if she had eyebrows they would most definitely be raised at this point.

When the subject of Molly’s love life was eventually exhausted and two cups of strong coffee had been consumed, Maria changed the subject.

Molly had known Maria since they had compared the length of their gymslips at secondary school. Since then they had shared a lot of stages in their lives (and of course as is human nature the comparisons continued). They had been together through examinations, driving lessons, first boyfriends and first jobs. However, Maria had been fortunate to meet the love of her life at 24. She had married and now had a lovely lively 5 year old, who was tucked up in bed whilst this latest drama was unfolding.

She wouldn’t admit it aloud but Molly was rather jealous of Maria’s settled life. She was unaware of course that it worked both ways. Maria envied Molly’s freedom and the fact that she earned her own money and was not dependant on a man. She did intend to return to work but not until her children were less reliant on her. Yes, children not child, Maria suspected another life was at this very moment developing in her womb, although she hadn’t completely admitted it to herself let alone her husband or close friend.

Molly had been a bit concerned about her friend of late as she seemed to be, in her eyes, turning strange. Her coffee table was strewn right now with self help and positive thinking books and she was showing a great interest and trying several complementary therapies.
Maria had negotiated one night out a week with her husband and was about to embark on a new course. She chose this moment to mention it to Molly. “I’m going on a new course next week”. “Oh yes,” said Molly suspiciously. Maria took a deep breath, “Meditation and Spirituality. It sounds very interesting. Why don’t you come too?” “Hurray!” thought Asandra and immediately began drizzling subtle suggestions into Molly’s mind, “It would be good. It sounds very interesting. Go for it. Go for it.” But of course, Molly being Molly, she said, “No thank you.” Asandra was crestfallen, but then she was used to that.

Molly returned home, took off her carefully chosen, now somewhat rumpled, clothes and dived into a hot bubble bath. She lay there thinking. (It was one of the special things about being a spirit guide that you could tap into your charge’s thoughts). Molly’s went like this. “If I want the life I’ve dreamed of I need to change something, do something differently. Maybe I’m getting old and closed with my thoughts. I’m always feeling jealous of Maria’s life so she must be doing something right. Maybe I should give that course of her’s a go, after all what have I got to lose?” Molly was sure for just a split second that she could hear someone chanting “yes, yes, yes” in a jubilant voice.

A week later Molly found herself in very unfamiliar territory, she was sat on one of a collection of mismatched chairs in a room lit by candles and heady from the incense stick which was smouldering. She was aware of Maria sat next to her, but the difference was that Maria was hanging on every word the tutor uttered, whereas Molly was distracted and uncomfortable, examining the room and each of the course attendees in turn. She felt well and truly like a fish out of water, right down to what she was wearing (a grey business suit, as she’d come straight from work). Everyone else was attired in bright, ethnic style clothing with flowing skirts and baggy trousers. The majority of the participants were women, although there was a very ethnically dressed man with a balding head, who had announced in the introductions that he was a practising Pagan. Despite her initial conviction that she should be more open, Molly was feeling decidedly uncomfortable at the moment.

“Ok,” said the tutor, a mid-40s looking woman with infuriatingly long hair (Molly’s would never grow past her shoulders), “we are now going to take an inner journey to meet our spirit guides.”

“Our what?” thought Molly, but thankfully someone else in the group asked the question for her.

“Have you ever felt someone unseen was looking out for you? Providing signs and guidance, giving you an inspirational hint just when you needed it and helping you to avoid dangerous situations? Some people call this a spirit guide, some a guardian angel.”

There were various murmurings of agreement from most of the group, well actually all but Molly could think of examples of spirit guide communication or intervention. Asandra was mortified.

“Ok then,” continued the tutor, “Let’s see if we can get an insight into or even communicate with these unseen beings. If you would all like to put anything you are holding on the floor, get comfortable in your chair and close your eyes.”

“Oh well”, thought Molly, “I’ll give it a go.”

“First I would like you to check around your body for any tension, note where it is and breathe into it to release it from your muscles.” Molly found her whole body was tense - she’d hyperventilate at this rate!

“Now breathe freely and easily and concentrate all of your attention on your feet. Tense and release the muscles, now your calves…..” The relaxation continued with Molly valiantly trying to follow along with the hypnotic voice.

“I’d like you to imagine that you are walking down a staircase, a staircase with ten steps. You walk down each step on an out-breath and when you get to the bottom step you will find yourself in a favourite place of relaxation, it may be somewhere you know or somewhere you just imagine, it doesn’t really matter. Ready, 1, (pause), 2, (pause), 3, (pause), 4, (pause), 5, (pause), 6, (pause), 7, (pause), 8, (pause), 9, (pause), 10 (pause), and step off the bottom step into that place of relaxation.”

Molly was astounded to suddenly have a very clear image in her mind of the beach she used to go to as a child. There was a particular part of the beach, by a large rock, that had been her sanctuary from her parents’ disagreements and siblings' squabbles.

The tutor continued, “And now that you are in your favourite place, I would like you to invite your spirit guide or guardian angel to join you in this place. You can then ask them any questions you like, for example, about their role in your life, their opinion of your life at the moment and any guidance they may have to give you. Finally ask your guide to give you a gift which they can use as a sign to alert you to listen to their guidance.”

Maria was deep in relaxation, revelling in her favourite place of relaxation which was a cave high on a mountainside. She had purposely changed the tutor’s words for this occasion, asking if she could meet the guardian angel of her unborn child. She smiled as she met an ethereal grandmother-type lady who promised to shield her child throughout her lifetime and to make sure she was guided to golden opportunities. The gift she was given, in trust for her daughter, was a golden egg. Everything about the experience felt good, the bonus being she now knew the sex of her unborn child and her trance expression was serene.

Molly, on the other hand, having surprised herself by managing to reach her favourite place, had been almost petrified out of it by the sudden appearance of a dishevelled, curly red-headed, harassed looking woman on the beach near her rock. She had a beaming smile and advanced on Molly with her hand extended. She announced that her name was Asandra, her spirit guide and was so glad to be able to meet her at last. It all seemed very surreal, but Molly could hear the tutor reminding her of the questions to ask. She was aware vaguely of the room and Maria sat next to her, but somehow the beach and Asandra were ever more vivid and real.

“Ok,” thought Molly, “questions to ask Asandra.” “How long have you been with me as my guide? Are you with me all of the time? How do you communicate with me?” The questions seemed to endlessly flood out until Asandra finally held up her hand for Molly to stop and began to answer. “I’ve been with you since the moment you were conceived, which is when I was assigned to you. Yes, I am with you all of the time, even when you are asleep, as I am always on duty. How do I communicate with you? With great difficulty. I try and try but most of the time you ignore me. I tried to tell you not to meet Christian the other night. I told you this course would be good for you. I get very frustrated when I know I can help you but you don’t ask. That is one of the rules you see, your charge is supposed to ask for help before you can offer advice.”

“What other rules are there?” asked Molly, intrigued and amazed. Had she had a potential helper all these years and not used her?”

The voice of the tutor broke Molly’s train of thought, saying “Ok if you haven’t done so already ask your guide for a gift to be used as a sign.” Molly felt panicked, there was so much she wanted to know the answer to. “Don’t worry,” said Asandra, “We can speak later.” She pressed something into Molly’s hand. Molly looked down as the tutor began to count the group out of the trance and saw a white feather. It had of course gone when she awoke. The next moment Molly was drinking a rather weak cup of horrid coffee, aware of the other members of the group eager to share their experiences. Molly listened politely, but kept her own thoughts and experiences to herself. She was pleased that Maria had had a happy time and listened to her raptures on the way home.

Molly spent the rest of the evening distracting herself from any thoughts of the course and by the next morning it all seemed like an unreal dream. Molly went back to being Molly and made herself believe nothing had changed - unseen friends – what a load of rubbish. She made an excuse to Maria to avoid the next part of the course. Asandra was astounded and dismayed. She had thought they were making progress.

It wasn’t until Molly was out for a night with her girlfriends a few weeks later that she even thought about her strange evening. She had been flirting overtly with a guy sat at the bar when she looked down at her drink and found a small white feather floating in it. Despite the alcohol consumed and her dizzy mood something registered deep inside her. “Ok Asandra, what are you trying to tell me?” she thought. She almost fell off her chair when she was answered clearly and loudly. “He’s no good, he’s violent and a drunk, steer clear.” Molly was indignant but her mood was instantly dissolved and to break contact with the object of her flirtation she went to dance with the others. After calming down for a time she asked in her head, “Ok then, are there any nice men here?” “Of course there are.” replied Asandra.

Molly proceeded to have a fun time pointing out various men to Asandra and listening to her opinion of them. She made up her mind to just dance and talk to her girlfriends that evening, but the change had been made and Asandra was aware that from now on their dialogue would continue. At last she could do her job and help her charge towards the fulfilment of her soul purpose for this lifetime. And if Molly ignored her in future, she just needed to project a white feather into the situation and Molly would pay attention and ask questions. Hopefully!

Life Coaching using EFT

I came across a guy called David Childerley yesterday who uses Emotional Freedom Technique, EFT as one tool for helping his clients in his life coaching business. EFT is used in many different ways to heal and resolve emotional and physical difficulties as well as helping to clear limiting beliefs you may have which are inhibiting your ability to get what you want in life. I will give more information in a later more comprehensive article, but you can get more details of the amazing changes and positive effects it easily achieves for people by going to http://www.emofree.com/ .David Childerley encorporates the technique into his training with a variety of companies who want help their business and their staff with development. If you want to know more, his website address is www.davidchilderley.com.
He also has a very talented wife who can naturally communicate with animals in a very special way, they tell her what is wrong and why they are suffering, so Dr Doolittle watch out!

Our essence range through star remedies

If you are looking to help & attract more clients and increase your income from your existing customers, then our Abundance essence & others can help. They compliment the work you are already doing and are great to add to your healing toolkit. A risk free money back guarantee offer. For the full range go to www.star-remedies.co.uk

I am the Director of a publishing company and apart from books on healing etc.. we offer a range of healing essences, specially created by me as you we see from our web-site I am fully qualified in Vibrational Medicine and trained with Jack Temple. We have added to the essence range with our Life-Needs & Lifestyle remedies (the Abundance remedy is with these) which are brilliant for working with emotional difficulties. We also do a range that is brilliant for healing the physical body – The Body Matrix Range.

p.s. our latest Ideal Weight remedy has just this week become available.

There is no minimum order quantity with the essences, however on orders over £75 postage is free.
The essences come in grape alcohol solution in 10ml bottles, with an instruction leaflet, and start at rrp £6.97.

Wholesale is available for shops, retailers and practitioners.

We offer a risk free service, if you are not happy with the essences for any reason,return them to us after 90 days and we will refund, obviously less our postage costs. I really know they work!
We know these essences work and extremely well, we have had some brilliant testimonials already.

We produce a monthly freeE-Zine electronic newsletter sent out to our clients and subscribers, if you wish to receive a copy please leave a message on the link below.

I am a fully qualified teacher, healer and journalist and offer personal email and telephone support about the essences and their uses as part of our service.


Anne C. Mason
Director & Publisher

BA. Hons., P.G.C.E, Dip Journalism,
Dip J.T.D.A Vibrational Medicine Practitioner,
Dip M.C.O.H., EFT Practitioner, EFT Practitioner Trainer,
Emotrance Practitioner, M.A.A.M.E.T.
http://www.star-remedies.co.uk/

anne@buttonbridgebooks.co.uk
http://www.buttonbridgebooks.co.uk/

Blogs: http://www.buttonbridgebooks.blogspot.com/
http://www.batblog-the-story.blogspot.com/

World Without Aids

The book 'World Without Aids' by Credence Publications is a must read for everybody. It is absolutely shocking what it reveals. It landed in my lap and I couldn't put it down, my feelings ranged from disbelief, to shock. It seems that being HIV positive has nothing whatsoever to do with AIDS and the drug companies have done a number on us all in persuading us that it is. People are dying because Doctors and health providers, good, honest caring people believe absolutely that the drugs they prescribe are helping, when in fact they are killing healthy people. You must get your hands on a copy
ISBN No: 0-9535012-5-6. More details on www.worldwithoutaids.org.

Button Bridge Books export to America

Button Bridge Books have their first export order to America of their latest title 'Songs From The Secret Place - The Meeting of the Spirits' by Deborah Clarke. The order arose out of an entry on www.metaxucafe.com and things started to get moving from there.