Writer and photographer living in Glasgow, Scotland. Feedback always welcome - @werewegian1 on Twitter
Somebody Else's Memories
The train curved along the coast, the puffing engine and the rattle of the train's carriages noisy. The approaching town felt familiar, the lighthouse on the rocky promontory, the long sandy beach, the little multi-coloured huts, the whites and greys of the houses and the church. The woman checked her bag. The photos were safe. In her State there were only freight trains. Public transport was the greyhound bus. Even the poor went everywhere by car. Not that she and Bill had been poor. Her father had handed the business over to them a long time ago. He hadn’t taken to Bill straight away, had been unsure of his credentials, but hard work and an easy manner had won Pop over in the end.
Changing The Code
The doctor is turning the screen away. You don't know why. He isn't abrupt about it. It's not like he saw you come in and then pulled the screen to one side. He waits until you are seated, and you are having a conversation. Each time he speaks he reaches over and touches the edge of the screen, as if he is tilting it because of the reflections, or pressing on a touch screen to input an answer but every time he does, he moves it subtly away, pretending he isn't doing it on purpose. And all the time he is asking you the same questions. Do you feel anxious today? Could you pinpoint why you are anxious? Are you more or less anxious than last week?
The clock ticked on the mantle-piece beside the porcelain children and the glass clowns. A special bed had been placed in the centre of the room, with a view out of the bay window. There was a faint mix of smells, the sweet scent of perfume and the bitterness of sweat.
The birds in the harbour swooped and dived as if flight was something new, a skill they had invented only this morning. Boats bobbed on the water as boats invariably bob on water. It was sunny, not too hot yet, but with the few clouds thinning, the day was losing the battle against the summer heat.
She gripped the counter. "You don't understand what it's like," she said. She heard the mug clatter on the table and the door bang as he left. The problem wasn't just with him, she didn't really understand herself. She took the half-eaten breakfasts and emptied them in the bin for the pigs, then put the plates in the sink to soak. The windows were streaked with the rain of the last week, but she could see a glimpse of better weather somewhere, probably near the water. She clenched again at the thought of the hospital by the lake.
The number 39 bus trundled into town. The traffic was slower than normal, and the windows steamed up with the frustration of the passengers looking at the time on their phones and watches.
Everyone has an aura. It glows faintly around your body and displays various colours. A few are golden or white which usually means a good person. Others are green, purple or blue and these are people with troubled or complex personalities. People with problems. People looking for answers. My own aura is like this and so are those of my clients. I suspect yours is too. A few people have black or red auras. These are the people who are bad. You don't want to know these people. You want to avoid them if you can. But seeing auras is not science and some days my gift is hazy, not working well. Yesterday was one of those days.