Greetings all and first up let me take the time to thank Anna, Shilpa, Jo, Dawn and Mario(LinkedIn) for reading and commenting, sharing and loving my last post. I will always take the time to mention those who come along and for those who read and preferred to stay in the shadows, much love to you too for reading.
I will just say there was no post yesterday as I was rather spent after a busy day and needed a bit of rest to recharge those batteries. Needless to say, that has been initiated and it's time for the vocabulary to flow as best it can.
I've been continuing to arrange my friends, acquaintances, colleagues, the adders and Romans. Ah Romans, what are you wittering about dear scribe. Forsooth, I have no idea my dear reader but let me proceed.
Whilst arranging the great ensemble I've come across many who would offer me and countless others the pearls of wisdom they have garnered and wish to share. There are so many who would gladly train me with their paths of knowledge as they sit in the guise of a guru upon a place of great understanding. Hmm, such thoughts for some reason do not seem to agree with yours truly.
Now, some of you may think, but ah, Mr H are you not a sage yourself and possess within you the answers to all we seek. Excuse me whilst I splutter my water in a burst of incredulity but I would have to say that whilst I may have garnered some direction for my own path I am no guru or life coach nor do I ever wish to be. For sure I run my own development group and do my bit to teach reiki but that's a bit of a different area. When I run my groups I do not sit atop a golden pedestal and proclaim what all must do lest I zap them with a burst of lightning. My role as I see it is to merely give a nudge in the direction which we collectively wish to explore and they do it so amazingly well.
Before someone takes me to task about running down life coaches, that is not my aim. I'm sure that there are many who do speak a lot of wisdom and can certainly guide you well. But goodness me, if I see another ubiquitous one arriving up Youtube informing me of how they can enlist me upon their investment portfolio I may well explode in my ignorance. Or perhaps their wisdom on setting up Amazon trading platforms will truly revolutionize my whole sense of being.
I imagine my sense of being will alter after paying for their hefty fee and not so hefty return. Also, if you care to look at the credentials of these wise old heads you often discover quite a few posts decrying what they offer you. Caveat Emptor dear people. I realise I may have transgressed into the realm of investors as opposed to the more spiritual based coaches yet the ethos remains. Do have a look to see if they are living the life they proport to offer. Ask yourself, can this person truly help me or do you have those awkward sensations in your tummy telling you otherwise.
I shall reiterate that there are some very worthy coaches out there but just take the time to be discerning and I'm sure those who can back up what they offer will be delighted to show you just how. Remember, they are here to serve you, not for you to serve them and the emphasis when they work with you should be on you, never them and there should be passion to want to help you too.
Well, I guess it's time for me to have a stroll through my archives and see what springs forth. Here goes nothing.
Forsaken Identity
Emily knew the cretin would ring. Her eyes descended on the cheap eighties styled phone. She felt anger lose to despair and prayed she’d refrain from saying anything unfortunate.
“I wish to hell I wasn't called Emily Bowman, maybe then he'd leave me alone,” she said. Her hand hovered above the receiver and waited for Steven ‘bloody’ Petter.
Peter approached his phone at eight fifty nine and fifty seconds. His finger raced to zero. He scratched his head and did not know why he held the phone. He sighed, replaced the phone and returned to his armchair.
Emily was overjoyed when the time passed nine. Her world collapsed when the phone burst into Greensleeves two minutes later.
“For God's sake,” she stormed. She braced herself for his slimy apologies.
“It is done. Will arrange details very soon,” answered a rasping voice.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean?” she said.
A dialing tone answered. She replaced the receiver in a state of bewilderment.
Emily raced towards the underpass. She ignored six buses of the same number parked by the stop and a queue of impatient passengers. Emily descended a flight of stairs and dreamed of a fat juicy kebab encased in chilli sauce slipping down her throat.
The roar of cars faded into a distant hum overhead. She passed halfway. Silence reigned.
Seven hooded figures with downcast eyes approached from the far end of the tunnel. Emily froze and gripped her patent purse with all her tiny might.
Jackal laughter resonated in the underpass. One member of the group sped past and circled. Emily shrank towards the wall. She glanced at the main pack garbed in a peculiar uniform of gray cloaks and dirty expensive trainers.
Emily winced at the stench of the stale urine soaked walls. The group huddled around. Her heart quailed.
“Please don't hurt me,” she pleaded.
Emily looked away when the leader pulled his hood down. She tried to sidle towards salvation yet could not pass a thicket of limbs.
“Excuse me are you Miss Emily Bowman?” requested a sonorous voice.
She glanced into the face of the enquirer and was greeted by a handsome face. His hair was the colour of carbon and his complexion tanned, almost Mediterranean. His age surprised her the most for he had journeyed far into his thirties.
Emily's face flushed.
“How do you know my name?”
“Forgive me, Miss Bowman. I've been watching you for a while whilst that devil of a chap hounds you to distraction.”
“Who are you? Why are you here and why the hell are you interested in me?”
The stranger’s eyes widened. He reassured her with a show of perfect teeth.
“My dear, three questions and three answers you shall have.”
His hands straightened within his jacket as though he were a bank manager about to dismiss a bad debt.
“Call me Stan. Also, the rest of my group's names aren't important, but I would like you meet my good friend Bill.”
He pointed towards an almost bald blonde man on Emily's left. He delivered an elaborate bow. Emily could not withhold an outburst of giggles.
“Excellent, excellent, that's it. There’s nothing like a good dose of laughter to lighten the mood,” beamed Stan.
“Let’s get to the reason why I'm here. Well, you asked for help and here we are.”
Emily's eyes flickered at his riddled words.
“Don’t go getting all alarmed; just see me as your guardian angel.”
“I didn't ask for your help” she replied.
Bill broke his silence.
“Oh, but you did Emily. It was just before Steven Petter was about to call you.”
Her thoughts raced. His voice seemed familiar.
“I don't know what you mean.”
Emily's face twisted in confusion
“I wish to hell I wasn't Emily Bowman. And well, here we are,” informed Bill.
“Are you saying you’re the devil?”
“The Devil? Oh good lord no. That's not my job, although I do my bit to help. I'd look to him for that.”
Bill nodded in the direction of Stan.
“But people say I wish to hell all the time. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Stan wagged his finger left and right.
“My dear I have to disagree. Of course I hear that request all the time, but seldom do people mean it.”
His face widened in an empathetic grin.
“And you certainly meant it Emily.”
He spread his arms in service and bowed.
"So Emily, do you want me to make the arrangement permanent?” asked Stan.
She felt a twang of curiosity
“What's the catch?” she asked.
“Emily I like you. I'm not all bad you know and don't let that clown up there tell you different.”
Bill placed his arm across Emily's shoulders.
“Emily, all we need is your signature. We need one simple thing, and your wish will have been granted. Search your heart and follow your instinct.”
Emily wavered.
“Perhaps some entertainment will cheer us all,” said Stan.
Stan led his troupe to the centre of the passageway. He astonished Emily when his gang began to dance. Devilish rap music blared forth from a battered Sony and the troupe jived for all their worth. Emily cheered and clapped at her unexpected spectacle.
Two of the dancers tip tapped theirway to the wall. They danced their way onto the ceiling, traversed the wall above her and descended on the opposite side. Three more demons followed their lead. Stan and Bill danced in the air in front of her. The pair’s trainers moved at a furious pace whilst they danced.
Emily swooned. The image of the passageway gave way to an immense ballroom. Stan was no longer a hooded traveller but bedecked in an expensive cut of cloth. He escorted his giddy charge to the centre of the dance floor.
Fire blazed beneath and their dance raged. She followed the Devil's lead. He threw her in all directions before he caught her. An assembly of well dressed spectators clapped and cheered. Bill waltzed to Emily before joining his Lord in a Satanic Salsa.
Emily's body was charged with heat and lust. The image faded and they returned to the underpass.
“You see what can be my dear? All you have to do is sign,” said Stan.
Stan looked towards his fellow fallen angel whose nose offered a prominent stalactite of hardened crystal from his left nostril. Bill yanked the manifestation from his proboscis and handed the makeshift pen to Emily. He gave her a leathered piece of parchment adorned with an ancient language she could not understand.
“A tiny dose of pain for an eternity of pleasure? Come my dear, please sign.”
Emily stabbed the crystallized bic into the soft palm of her hand.
“Soon, you will forget the agony of your past life and be glad of the happiness ahead,” cheered Stan.
Her blood seeped into the smooth grooves at the side of the pen and dropped onto the scroll. The parchment changed from yellow to brown and burst into fire.
“Signed in blood, singed in flame, never again will Emily use her name,” sang seven voices as one.
The parchment disintegrated. Her nostrils inhaled harsh brimstone and forced her to cough.
Stan dismissed her nausea with a kiss. Emily swayed and desired far more than an exchange of lips.
“My dear, we have to go, but not before Bill has given you one last gift.”
Emily's sad eyes flew to Beelzebub. He handed her a warm packet of flour and meat.
“You'll find this much more wholesome than Fat Ali's dog meat,” laughed the Lord of the Flies.
She allowed her lips to suckle kebab. Emily bit into dead lamb with fiery sauce and closed her eyes in dark rapture.
She re-opened her eyes and found herself alone. She wondered if she'd hallucinated yet the delicious meal she bit into was no illusion. She sighed and made her way home.
She was glad she was on a later shift. She needed a long lie in. She gathered her post. The girl scanned the contents of junk mail and saw adverts for credit cards, garden sheds; despite the fact she lived on the fourth storey; consolidated loans and an introductory offer to a book club. She tossed her post into the bin oblivious the letters were addressed to the occupant; that woman; her and the girl in flat 22.
She scampered to the warmth of her bed. She dreamt of her dead parents. They called out to her, to turn away, not to be weak. They yelled at her to run from the ball, not to sign his letter. They told her not to damn her soul.
The woman straightened in her bed. She wiped fatty sleep from her eyes and cursed her greasy dinner from the night before. Her throat was dry. Her mouth tasted foul. She felt a surge of panic for she could not for the life of her remember her name.
“My name begins E” she muttered.
She could not understand her amnesia. Memories of Stan and Bill stormed back.
“What have I done?” she wailed.
The phone rang.
“The contract is finalised.”
“Bill, is that you? Please, tell me my name,” she pleaded.
Cold laughter answered.
“I don’t know your name.”
She ran fingers through her hair.
“Please, you must help me.” she pleaded.
Bill didn't answer. His laughter succumbed to the dead tone of the phone. She pressed one, four, seven and one. Her earpiece told her the number was withheld.
She threw her clothes on and marched headed to the bus stop. Her friend’s names returned Natalie; Lucy; Sharon; Dave; Simon and Josie. Her memory refused to yield her identity.
She entered the offices of Farmer Brothers. She found her desk and searched for her nameplate.
“Hi Lucy, have a good weekend?” she asked.
“Hiya, it was all right I suppose.”
She examined her name plaque and the word ‘her’ stared back.
She fell into her chair. She seized her phone.
“Hello, Farmer Brothers, her speaking,” she said.
“Hi, it's Sharon. Do me a favour and post last month’s sales figures to head office tonight for me.”
“Ok, will do.”
Josie bounced towards her with a bundle of invoices.
“Hi woman.”
“What did you call me?” she barked.
Josie's eyes tapered in concern.
“Woman, that’s what I always call you.”
“No, what's my damn name? My real name,” she hissed.
Several eyes darted in her direction.
“Are you all right?” asked Josie.
Her eyes strained in disbelief.
“What's my damn name? Stop bloody winding me up,”
Josie backed away from the demented female who screamed for identity. Josie raised her hands to block a hole punch aimed at her head.
“Whoa, hold on there,” ordered Simon who caught her arm before the blow landed.
Simon struggled to hold her still. Several other bodies raced to restrain the woman.
“She, will you calm down? Whatever is the matter with her?” asked several voices.
The woman was led away by two bemused police officers. She could not give her name. Her thoughts were dominated by three things: Dancing, identity and taste of dead lamb meat in fiery chilli sauce.
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