'Nightmare' by Barbara Chapman

Dark fingers of dread pull at me. Where am I? I become aware of my mouth – dry and sour. My head is a space above my shoulders – aching, filled with grey fog. There is softness beneath my stiff cheek – a pillow; I kick and my foot tangles in softness – a quilt. So it was a dream?
I roll over. The room swims into focus. Feet somehow transposed to the floor, I sit blinking, trying to shake off the images that blur and flow together like an Edvard Munch canvas.
So real; it feels so real.
Terror is etched on my skin in a sheen of sweat. If I relax I will fall back and it will reclaim me. The curtain stirs, a fragment of breeze whispers across my face. Cold...dank....enclosed. TRAPPED!
Running directionless, blind. Black shifting to grey rock to earth. Where am I? My overriding urge – escape. Something... someone is there in the dark.
In my semi-waking state I become a conduit for the dream – I look down and see myself, a figure running, groping, stumbling. I am sinking back onto the bed. Once more I am the prey of sleep. The nightmare grips me ...
A smell of diesel. The coach has pulled onto a wide space below the hill; taken a spot beside other vehicles. Passengers are spilling out, stretching, pulling on coats and jackets. It is not really cold, but once inside it will be chill.
I join the flow of bodies; the narrow entrance funnels us; now I am a single droplet forced forward.
The smoothness beneath my feet changes - the path has become rock. A line has been crossed – now this is another place; in my nostrils the tang of earth, iron and old air. A thin light draws the eye to the side. We are meant to see. I cannot – a jumble of dark shapes blocks me. I hang back in the chill air breathing its blackness, waiting. I am here for this; I too must see. The crowd shifts then begins to dissipate. I feel myself pulled forward into the vacuum of their departure. What am I seeing? There are words, a sign. But what meets my gaze is wrong – the shapes are not those of old mining tools. I stare, angling for meaning through the weak pool of light and the shapes, like fish glimpsed in the depths form, becoming bones – twisted ribs, a crushed skull.
Sound whispers around me. A voice long dead, trapped in this cavern:
I am the rock the rock is me. Caught. Cold. Dead.
Blood cooling, freezing in veins like threaded minerals waiting to be freed by a miner’s pick; flesh marbling with patterns of decay, falling away to reveal stone-white bone.
Horror claws at my chest, bursting my lungs. The rasping I hear is my breath.
I must get away from here. Move! Run! My legs will not obey.
The light goes out fog-thick darkness envelops me. Air congeals, clogging my lungs; I am stuck.
My thoughts – must free my thoughts. My mind is my own it can move still. See light, see a path. Light cuts a path. Lift a foot, grope forward. A sound or is it an echo in my mind? “There is no light.” I no longer know where my skin ends and the blackness begins. “There is no you.” Terror would be welcome a leaping emotion in pumping blood, but instead all is heavy, cold, weighted with nothingness.
A shape pressed in a mould of darkness - no flicker of warmth or life. Images are squeezed into nothingness; the concept is forced out of existence with the word. Thoughts have nothing to give them form.
The end is solid nothingness trapped in rock and clay; bone without blood, brain without thought.
Something. What? A sound. It vibrates through the chamber, defines edges, walls. Form returns. Water, falling water. Turn and lunge, scrambling, clawing upwards. Lungs burn, ears drum. I snatch at the thread of sound and haul myself towards life.
A cold breath shivers around me; my skin rises in goose bumps. I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. The yielding bulk upon which I am lying is the mattress. My hands are clenched into the softness of the quilt. Still I am held by the sound of falling water. The curtain billows away from the casement; rain beats down. My blood beats to its drumming. I let the cool air draw me out of the nightmare into the rain-silvered light of a new day.

'Sunshine All the Way' by Louise McClean

 When I was a child, during the war, every August my gran, my mother and I spent a week at Portrush, a seaside town on the north coast of Ireland. This week was the happiest time of my life and the highlight of my year. It was always eagerly anticipated and never disappointed.
We went to Portrush by steam train which, as we neared our destination, ran right along the beach on one side and was bound by steep cliffs on the other - wonderful. By then I was beside myself with excitement.
Each year we stayed at the same boarding house in 20 Mark Street owned by a friend of my gran’s called Mrs. Black. It was in the centre of a row of identical houses with two bay windows at the front and on a height overlooking the harbour and a short walk from the station.
On the ground floor was the kitchen (strictly out of bounds to the guests) the dining room and a sitting room. This was furnished with two leatherette settees and several easy chairs all facing the bay window with the lovely view of the beach. The lino on the floor had a few little rugs scattered over it
It was a tall narrow house on three floors. There were six bedrooms; four double and two single. We were always on the second floor with my mother and I sharing a room and, further along the narrow corridor, my gran had her single room. There was one bathroom which was shared by everyone. I presume the top floor was much the same but I was never allowed to go up there to find out!
As it was during the war and rationing was still in force, we took our ration books with us and handed them over to Mrs. Black for the week. We had full board and I seem to remember the food was plain but wholesome with stew, shepherd’s pie, sausages and salads with Spam on the menu. Porridge was the norm for breakfast, with toast.
We spent out time on holiday walking along the prom, watching the boats in the harbour or sitting in a shelter on Ramore Head with the huge waves breaking on the cliffs below. Every year I had a ride on the donkeys and a highlight was a visit to Barry’s amusement park with it’s waltzer cars and the very scary ghost train!
There were two beaches, called strands in Ireland, one on either side of the headland and the white sand stretched for miles on each one. As this was on the Atlantic, the huge waves crashes continuously onto the sand but the water was always freezing so I usually just paddled with my skirt tucked into my knickers.
In the summer, during the war, there was double summer time which meant the clocks were put forward two hours instead of one and so it was daylight till about 11 o’clock at night which was great. Every evening, along the prom, there were evangelists who attempted to save our souls. They shouted a lot and prayed fervently for the sinners and were great fun to watch! I loved the hymn singing which was accompanied by an accordian player and we all wrapped up well and sang our hearts out as we sat on the hard benches. We never did get saved however!
Further along the road from Portrush is the very famous Giant’s Causeway with it’s fantastic hexagonal stones and pillars. A tram used to run to the Causeway from Portrush and we visited every year. It was very popular with visitors, especially the children who loved to jump from stone to stone trying to avoid slipping into the sea in between. Sadly the tram is no more.
Portrush had all the usual shops selling buckets and spaded, beach balls and rubber rings for those brave enough to enter the freezing water. There was one lovely department store called The White House which my mum and gran loved so we spent quite a lot of time in there -- not buying, you understand, just admiring!
We were on holiday in Portrush on VJ Day and there was great excitement with dancing and singing on the streets and rejoicing all around. Personally I was thrilled as this meant my dad would be coming home at last. I remember being persuaded to sing Lily Marlene for the other guests!
As an adult I have travelled extensively and enjoyed wonderful holidays all over the world, but somehow nothing has ever matched the joy and excitement and pure happiness of those weeks spent in Portrush with my gran and mum. I suppose it must have rained some of the time , but if it did, then I don’t remember it - it was sunshine all the way, every day for me.

'Wasps in the Greengages' by Joyce Hayward

I enjoy gardening but do wonder why I bother sometimes!
This past few days of good weather have, at last, put me in a good mood - that was until I went to harvest the fruit and nut trees.
To begin with I planned to pick the greengage plums, a bumper crop, but they had ripened behind my back and fallen off the tree. The rest were either full of wasps or the birds had pecked them.
My husband’s hazel nut tree had a super crop last week, but they were not quite ready then. This week there was not a single nut – that so-and-so squirrel had got there before me.
To crown it all the caterpillars have completely stripped the sprout plants and the dog has dug himself a crater in my stone flower trough!

'A Day In The Life Of A Suburban 60's Teenager' by Jan Lloyd

Although I used to long for the summer holidays to arrive, when they finally did I would invariably end up being bored most of the time. Apart from the odd visit to relatives with my parents I was usually left to my own devices.
My Mum and Dad both worked full time so were rarely around to lift me out of the endless lack of entertainment. So I would wonder around aimlessly with which ever friend was available and not away on some luxurious holiday. If friends were away the only highlight or contact with a human being would be the bread delivery man, who I became convinced I was in love with. This built up to near hysteria as I watched out of the window for the arrival of the "Wrights Bakery" van. He would jump out of the van whistling and I would gaze in awe as he marched up the path. I would rush to the back door and pay him the money my Mum had left as he smiled and uttered something about the weather. I would interpret that as a sign that, as he'd taken the time to speak to me, then he must love me too; but the reality was he was at least twenty and oblivious to the teenage crush I had on him. The other regular visit was from the Pearl Insurance man but without the frisson of excitement as he was very strange and creepy. An argument would ensue between my brother and myself as to who would go to the door to pay the money as neither of us could stop giggling when he arrived. The poor man must have dreaded coming to our house!
When Jean, who lived next door but one, was around we would play ball against the wall or handstands to see who could stay up the longest or visit the rec to stare at David and Stuart who were mods and had scooters. Going to the rec took some preparation as we had to look our best to get the attention of these two Adonises. Once we picked out our most impressive outfits and applied the latest trend in makeup we would saunter over to the rec and sit on the swings to await their arrival. David and Stuart would eventually arrive looking trendy and sophisticated wearing parkas, driving their scooters around the perimeter of the grassed area. Their friends would hang around looking enviously at the gleaming scooters whilst we tried to look cool and disinterested, wishing deep down that they would ride over and ask us out. This never happened and eventually we would drift off and walk back home discussing who looked at who and whether they really fancied us but were just too shy to talk. We would return to our respective homes to meet up again after tea to watch telly together to ogle more heart throbs - "The Monkees", or "Ready Steady Go". If my parents were working late I would prepare my own tea purchased off Tanner's travelling shop - a pleasurable treat which would arrive in the late afternoon. Mr Tanner would beep the horn to attract out customers, usually all housewives, struggling to think what to make for dinner. I would race out mainly for sweets but would sometimes choose something for a special meal. Vesta Curry was my favourite as it was easy to make and I felt really exotic and interesting having a curry for tea.
So the long summers as a teenager would pass by spent indulging in simple pleasures and what appears to be a far cry from the teenagers of today. I'm sure all teenagers throughout the world encounter the same angst and difficulties in forming relationships, struggling to be independent and finding something "out there" to spark an interest. There still seems to be the same problems thrown at them as I had in the 60's but, in general, appear more able and confident in dealing with them despite whatever outside influences dictate how their future develops. There are more support networks available and females get more choices and opportunities.
I think most generations believe they are living through the best times and will always look back with a nostalgic fondness. Overall what I considered to be a boring and mundane existence, on reflection, was comparatively innocent and blissful.

'My Trip To France' by Rosie Pugh

On my first morning in France I was greeted by a warm sun filtering through the trees which peeped into my bedroom window. After a traditional French breakfast of coffee and croissant we set off on a trip to the country market in the medieval town of St. Anton which is held on Sunday mornings.
We travelled through beautiful scenery and when we arrived we parked the cars and set out to explore through the cobbled streets. On both sides were stalls displaying goods of all kinds. I was enthralled.
Pieces of cheese had been put on crusty bread and were offered to those that wanted to taste. The man behind one stall, with his fine French accent, offered tempting continental meats for you to try. On another stall were olives, green and black, some filled with almonds and others with peppers or soaked in garlic. I must admit I was tempted so I bought the olives with the almonds.
For me the stall with the wonderful display of vegetables was like stepping back in time when a lettuce was big and had lustrous green leaves. The red and plump tomatoes nestled next to pink and white radishes which were very mouth watering. You could tell they had not long been out of the earth as there were grains of soil still on the roots with droplets of dew resting gently.
Further along I asked my companion, ‘Is that mashed potato he’s selling?’
She smiled and asked the stall holder. Although I can’t speak French I could make out some of the ingredients from his reply. So when she started to tell me I got in first: mashed potato, crème fraiche, butter and pepper. She said that people were buying small tubs of this product for their Sunday lunch. It was expensive - but I bet it tasted good!
There was something there for everyone with assorted breads of different shapes and shades of brown which were next to the biscuits and cakes.
Nearby was a café which was very different in style to our pubs. Locals and visitors mingled there and drank coffee, wine and beer. We decided that we too would stop and try the coffee and the French atmosphere that surrounded us as we watched the world go by.
St. Anton was steeped in so much history. For instance the building opposite the café was once a church and further down the road there was a house that was once a brothel.
I felt that all that I was missing was a guide to fill in the missing gaps. It was a town with so much intrigue; but alas it was time for us to leave a place which concealed many mysteries within its walls.

'He is Happy' by Elisa Hill

I stared at him. I could not process what the psychologist was saying.
"Your son is of very low IQ. The bottom ten percent of the population."
He might have been speaking Greek. Nothing was registering. His words seemed to be floating in a cloud above his head.
"He has a leaning difficulty. We don't know what. We can’t diagnose it. There is no recognisable disorder."
I was on my own, his father had not been able to make it. I felt intense hatred of this man. ‘How can he say these things?’ I don't know how but I walked out of that room and travelled to pick up the kids from my friends house.
"What did they say? "she asked.
" A learning difficulty, whatever that means,’ I mumbled.
She does not press me; the look of devastation shocks her, and she can't find any words to comfort me.
That first week...just many selfish thoughts. ‘How could I have a child less than ‘normal’?" A blur; talking at him. Trying to get him to respond. A barrage of words. No response. The poor child just wants to be left alone in his own little world. I want to make that man a liar.
A second wave of pain hits when I think of his future. That he will never have a "normal" life. Never marry, have children, a lost future.

Ten years later and the social worker is asking a series of questions, something he seems to do every few years, "How do you feel about being a carer?"
"Well you don't just sign on for 18 years when you have a child,” I answered.
"You could have your life back."
I think about the implications of his words. "No, never!" I reply with disproportional anger.
"What about when you can't look after him anymore?" I try not to cry, and he pretends not to notice.
Most parents my age are suffering ‘empty nest syndrome’; but I will never have an empty nest; never be alone. Now my life is ordered by his needs and I am so used to doing this, I do not resent it. It is my life. Sometimes he surprises me with his reactions to things. Often he understands more than I thought was possible.
My daughter once joked, “As soon as you die, he’s going straight in a home" She has no idea how painful her words were. They cut like a knife.
Now I hear him singing in the next room – He is happy!