Day 248

Some pointers for reviewing your work

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Sharpen Your Words: Simple Tips for Better Writing

Ever finish writing something and feel like it’s just… not quite right? We’ve all been there. Polishing your writing is key to making sure your message shines through. Here are a few handy tips to help you review your work and make it stronger.

Keep it Concise

Don’t write long sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to follow. They pack a punch.

Each sentence should make a clear statement. Get straight to the point. Avoid rambling. Every sentence needs a purpose.

Watch Your Vocabulary

Don’t use big words. Choose words that everyone understands. Simple language is powerful language.

Never use words whose meanings you are not sure of. If you’re second-guessing a word, swap it out. Clarity is king.

Be Concrete

Avoid the abstract. Stick to what you can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Give examples. Paint a picture with your words.

What Else?

These are great starting points, but what else can help you make your writing shine?

• Read it aloud: This is a game-changer. You’ll catch awkward phrasing and sentences that are too long. Your ears will tell you what your eyes miss.
• Get a second opinion: Ask a friend or colleague to read your work. They’ll see things you’re too close to notice.
• Take a break: Step away from your writing. Come back with fresh eyes.
• Focus on flow: Do your ideas connect smoothly? Are your paragraphs logically ordered?
• Check for repetition: Are you saying the same thing over and over? Find different ways to express your ideas.

Reviewing your writing doesn’t have to be a chore. By keeping these simple tips in mind, you can transform your drafts into clear, engaging pieces that truly connect with your readers. Happy writing!

Day 247

Making sense out of formless rubble

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Taming the Chaos: How Art Builds Sanctuaries in a World of Rubble

We’ve all felt it, haven’t we? That creeping sense of overwhelm. The news cycle churns relentlessly, a tidal wave of disconnected events. Our personal lives can feel like a jumble of unfinished tasks and fuzzy anxieties. The world, in its raw, unedited state, can seem like a vast, formless expanse, a “mass of senseless rubble” threatening to swallow us whole.

It’s this very formlessness, this inherent chaos, that I believe lies at the heart of a profound motive for creating art. Whether it’s a sprawling epic novel, a defiant abstract painting, a haunting melody, or even a meticulously arranged bouquet of flowers, art, in its myriad manifestations, is our deeply human act of defiance against the shapeless void.

Think about it. The world, left to its own devices, is a wild, untamed thing. It doesn’t adhere to our neat narratives or our tidy classifications. It’s a messy, unpredictable storm of emotions, events, and experiences – some beautiful, some brutal, and many simply baffling. Trying to grasp it all, to make sense of its sheer scale and complexity, can be an exhausting, and frankly, demoralizing endeavor.

And here’s where the artist steps in, armed not with a bulldozer, but with a brush, a pen, a chisel, or a musical score. The deep motive, as I see it, is to defeat the formlessness of the world. It’s a declaration that we can impose order, that we can find patterns, and that we can create meaning where none immediately presents itself.

Consider the act of storytelling. A novelist takes a stream of consciousness, a tangle of potential plotlines, a cast of characters with complicated motivations, and weaves them into a coherent narrative. A beginning emerges, a middle unfolds, and an end, however bittersweet, is reached. The chaos of human experience is channeled, shaped, and channeled into a form that we can understand, digest, and even learn from. We read a book and, for a time, the bewildering mess of life is held at bay, replaced by the carefully constructed architecture of a fictional universe.

The visual artist does something similar. They stare at a blank canvas, a lump of clay, or a digital void, and begin to impose their vision. They choose colors, shapes, textures, and compositions. They translate the abstract feelings and observations that swirl within them into tangible forms. A Rothko painting, with its vast fields of color, doesn’t necessarily depict a specific object, but it evokes an emotional landscape. It gives form to the ineffable, allowing us to engage with feelings that might otherwise remain formless and elusive.

And this act of creation isn’t just about imposing order on the external world; it’s profoundly about cheering oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise be a mass of senseless rubble. When we feel lost, overwhelmed, or insignificant, the act of creation is an act of empowerment. It’s taking a piece of the formless, the chaotic, the seemingly senseless, and wrestling it into something beautiful, something resonant, something that serves as a small, but potent, sanctuary.

Think of the artist who, after experiencing profound loss, picks up their instrument and composes a lament. They aren’t erasing the pain, but they are giving it a shape, a melody, a rhythm. This act of formalizing grief can be incredibly cathartic, transforming raw emotion into something that can be shared, understood, and perhaps, in time, healed. It’s building a small, sturdy structure of sound against the howling wind of sorrow.

In our own lives, we don’t all need to be professional artists to tap into this motive. Organizing a messy desk, planning a meal, or even meticulously tending a garden are all small acts of form-making. They are ways of bringing order to our immediate surroundings, of saying, “This chaos will not defeat me.”

So, the next time you find yourself staring at the bewildering vastness of the world, feeling a bit lost in the rubble, remember the power of form. Remember that art, in all its glorious diversity, is our innate human response to that formlessness. It’s our way of building beautiful, meaningful sanctuaries, one carefully crafted line, one resonant chord, one poignant word at a time. It’s our quiet, persistent, and ultimately triumphant declaration that even in the face of overwhelming chaos, we can create. And in that creation, we find not only order, but also a much-needed dose of cheer.

Day 247

Making sense out of formless rubble

…

Taming the Chaos: How Art Builds Sanctuaries in a World of Rubble

We’ve all felt it, haven’t we? That creeping sense of overwhelm. The news cycle churns relentlessly, a tidal wave of disconnected events. Our personal lives can feel like a jumble of unfinished tasks and fuzzy anxieties. The world, in its raw, unedited state, can seem like a vast, formless expanse, a “mass of senseless rubble” threatening to swallow us whole.

It’s this very formlessness, this inherent chaos, that I believe lies at the heart of a profound motive for creating art. Whether it’s a sprawling epic novel, a defiant abstract painting, a haunting melody, or even a meticulously arranged bouquet of flowers, art, in its myriad manifestations, is our deeply human act of defiance against the shapeless void.

Think about it. The world, left to its own devices, is a wild, untamed thing. It doesn’t adhere to our neat narratives or our tidy classifications. It’s a messy, unpredictable storm of emotions, events, and experiences – some beautiful, some brutal, and many simply baffling. Trying to grasp it all, to make sense of its sheer scale and complexity, can be an exhausting, and frankly, demoralizing endeavor.

And here’s where the artist steps in, armed not with a bulldozer, but with a brush, a pen, a chisel, or a musical score. The deep motive, as I see it, is to defeat the formlessness of the world. It’s a declaration that we can impose order, that we can find patterns, and that we can create meaning where none immediately presents itself.

Consider the act of storytelling. A novelist takes a stream of consciousness, a tangle of potential plotlines, a cast of characters with complicated motivations, and weaves them into a coherent narrative. A beginning emerges, a middle unfolds, and an end, however bittersweet, is reached. The chaos of human experience is channeled, shaped, and channeled into a form that we can understand, digest, and even learn from. We read a book and, for a time, the bewildering mess of life is held at bay, replaced by the carefully constructed architecture of a fictional universe.

The visual artist does something similar. They stare at a blank canvas, a lump of clay, or a digital void, and begin to impose their vision. They choose colors, shapes, textures, and compositions. They translate the abstract feelings and observations that swirl within them into tangible forms. A Rothko painting, with its vast fields of color, doesn’t necessarily depict a specific object, but it evokes an emotional landscape. It gives form to the ineffable, allowing us to engage with feelings that might otherwise remain formless and elusive.

And this act of creation isn’t just about imposing order on the external world; it’s profoundly about cheering oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise be a mass of senseless rubble. When we feel lost, overwhelmed, or insignificant, the act of creation is an act of empowerment. It’s taking a piece of the formless, the chaotic, the seemingly senseless, and wrestling it into something beautiful, something resonant, something that serves as a small, but potent, sanctuary.

Think of the artist who, after experiencing profound loss, picks up their instrument and composes a lament. They aren’t erasing the pain, but they are giving it a shape, a melody, a rhythm. This act of formalizing grief can be incredibly cathartic, transforming raw emotion into something that can be shared, understood, and perhaps, in time, healed. It’s building a small, sturdy structure of sound against the howling wind of sorrow.

In our own lives, we don’t all need to be professional artists to tap into this motive. Organizing a messy desk, planning a meal, or even meticulously tending a garden are all small acts of form-making. They are ways of bringing order to our immediate surroundings, of saying, “This chaos will not defeat me.”

So, the next time you find yourself staring at the bewildering vastness of the world, feeling a bit lost in the rubble, remember the power of form. Remember that art, in all its glorious diversity, is our innate human response to that formlessness. It’s our way of building beautiful, meaningful sanctuaries, one carefully crafted line, one resonant chord, one poignant word at a time. It’s our quiet, persistent, and ultimately triumphant declaration that even in the face of overwhelming chaos, we can create. And in that creation, we find not only order, but also a much-needed dose of cheer.

Day 246

Horror stories

…

From Gothic Gloom to Psychological Dread: The Evolving Art of Horror

The chill that creeps up your spine when you read a truly terrifying tale. It’s a sensation as old as storytelling itself, yet it continues to evolve, morphing and adapting to the anxieties and imaginations of each new era. When we look back at the foundational figures of literary horror, like Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley, we marvel at the sheer ingenuity of their creations. But understanding how they conjured such potent nightmares is key to appreciating the genre’s enduring power, and how authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King have, in turn, reshaped its landscape.

The Seeds of Terror: Poe and Shelley’s Gothic Visions

When Edgar Allan Poe penned tales of premature burial, haunted houses, and descent into madness, he tapped into a deep well of human fears. His horror wasn’t always about external monsters; it often lurked within the human psyche. Poe, a master of atmosphere and psychological introspection, drew inspiration from:

• The Grim Realities of His Time: Poe lived through periods of significant social upheaval and personal tragedy. His own experiences with loss, poverty, and mental illness undoubtedly fueled his explorations of the darker aspects of the human condition.
• Gothic Literary Traditions: He inherited a rich tradition of Gothic literature, with its crumbling castles, spectral apparitions, and brooding protagonists. Poe took these tropes and infused them with a more visceral, psychological intensity.
• Scientific and Philosophical Debates: The burgeoning interest in science, death, and the nature of consciousness during his era likely played a role. He explored the fragility of the mind and the terrifying unknown that lay beyond the veil of sanity.

Similarly, Mary Shelley’s creation of Frankenstein wasn’t born in a vacuum. Her “modern Prometheus” was a product of:

• Intellectual Circles and Revolutionary Ideas: Shelley was surrounded by Romantic poets and thinkers who debated the ethics of scientific advancement and the very essence of life. The scientific experiments of the time, aiming to understand and even replicate life, provided a fertile ground for her imagination.
• Personal Loss and the Fear of the Unnatural: Shelley experienced profound grief with the loss of her mother and later her own children. This personal experience of death and the potential for “unnatural” creation likely fueled her exploration of a being brought to life through artificial means and the subsequent tragedy that ensued.
• The Power of Myth and the Sublime: The idea of creating life, of playing God, is an ancient human fascination. Shelley tapped into this, blending it with the Romantic fascination for the sublime – the awe-inspiring, yet terrifying, power of nature and human endeavor.

Both Poe and Shelley, in their distinct ways, explored the anxieties of their times, the fragility of the human mind and body, and the intoxicating, often dangerous, allure of the unknown. Their horror was deeply rooted in the human experience, albeit amplified and distorted for terrifying effect.

The Evolution of Fear: Blatty and King’s Transformative Impact

Fast forward to the latter half of the 20th century, and the landscape of horror had broadened considerably. Authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King didn’t just build upon the foundations of their predecessors; they fundamentally altered the architecture of terror.

William Peter Blatty and the Resurgence of Supernatural Dread:

Blatty’s The Exorcist was a seismic event in horror. While supernatural threats existed before, Blatty’s novel brought a visceral, intensely religious horror to the forefront. His genius lay in:

• Grounding the Supernatural in the Real: He took a seemingly ordinary family and an everyday setting and plunged them into extraordinary, terrifying events. This made the horror feel all the more potent because it could, theoretically, happen to anyone.
• Exploring Faith and Doubt: The Exorcist delved into the battle between good and evil, faith and disbelief, and the terrifying possibility that malevolent forces could possess and corrupt even the innocent. This psychological and spiritual dimension resonated deeply with audiences.
• Unflinching Realism in the Face of the Unexplained: Despite the supernatural elements, Blatty presented the demonic possession with a horrifyingly realistic depiction of physical and psychological torment, blurring the lines between the tangible and the infernal.

Stephen King: The Master of Modern Anxiety:

Stephen King, arguably the most prolific and influential horror writer of our time, has transformed the genre by making the mundane terrifying and by tapping into the collective anxieties of modern life. His impact is multifaceted:

• Relatable Characters and Settings: King excels at creating ordinary people in extraordinary, often horrifying, circumstances. His characters are flawed, relatable, and deeply human, making their struggles against the forces of evil all the more compelling. His settings often feel familiar – small towns, suburban houses – making the intrusion of horror feel all the more shocking.
• The Breadth of Horror: King’s monsters aren’t confined to ghosts or demons. He explores cosmic horrors (like in It), technological terrors, the monstrousness of human nature, and the psychological horrors of addiction, grief, and trauma. He’s a chameleon, masterfully adapting to and defining various subgenres of horror.
• The Power of Childhood Fears: Many of King’s most iconic stories tap into the primal fears of childhood – the monster under the bed, the lurking stranger, the loss of innocence. He understands that these early anxieties can linger and become even more potent in adulthood.
• Social Commentary Woven into Terror: King often uses his horror narratives to explore social issues and contemporary anxieties, from racism and prejudice in The Outsider to the emptiness of consumer culture in The Long Walk. His stories are often a reflection of the world around us, amplified to terrifying proportions.

The Throughline of Fear:

What connects Poe and Shelley to Blatty and King? It’s the fundamental human capacity for fear, coupled with the author’s ability to tap into our deepest anxieties, whether they are existential dread, the fear of the unknown, the fragility of sanity, or the encroaching darkness in the seemingly ordinary.

Poe gave us the internal descent into madness. Shelley showed us the terrifying consequences of unchecked ambition and the “unnatural.” Blatty brought the battle between good and evil into our homes and churches. And King, in his vast and varied career, has made us question the safety of our neighborhoods, the demons within ourselves, and the terrifying possibilities that lurk just a page away.

The art of horror is a constantly evolving beast. It adapts, it transforms, and it continues to enthrall us by reminding us, in the most exhilarating and terrifying ways, of our own vulnerabilities and the vast, mysterious darkness that surrounds us. And for that, we owe a deep debt of gratitude to these masters of the macabre, past and present.

Day 246

Horror stories

…

From Gothic Gloom to Psychological Dread: The Evolving Art of Horror

The chill that creeps up your spine when you read a truly terrifying tale. It’s a sensation as old as storytelling itself, yet it continues to evolve, morphing and adapting to the anxieties and imaginations of each new era. When we look back at the foundational figures of literary horror, like Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley, we marvel at the sheer ingenuity of their creations. But understanding how they conjured such potent nightmares is key to appreciating the genre’s enduring power, and how authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King have, in turn, reshaped its landscape.

The Seeds of Terror: Poe and Shelley’s Gothic Visions

When Edgar Allan Poe penned tales of premature burial, haunted houses, and descent into madness, he tapped into a deep well of human fears. His horror wasn’t always about external monsters; it often lurked within the human psyche. Poe, a master of atmosphere and psychological introspection, drew inspiration from:

• The Grim Realities of His Time: Poe lived through periods of significant social upheaval and personal tragedy. His own experiences with loss, poverty, and mental illness undoubtedly fueled his explorations of the darker aspects of the human condition.
• Gothic Literary Traditions: He inherited a rich tradition of Gothic literature, with its crumbling castles, spectral apparitions, and brooding protagonists. Poe took these tropes and infused them with a more visceral, psychological intensity.
• Scientific and Philosophical Debates: The burgeoning interest in science, death, and the nature of consciousness during his era likely played a role. He explored the fragility of the mind and the terrifying unknown that lay beyond the veil of sanity.

Similarly, Mary Shelley’s creation of Frankenstein wasn’t born in a vacuum. Her “modern Prometheus” was a product of:

• Intellectual Circles and Revolutionary Ideas: Shelley was surrounded by Romantic poets and thinkers who debated the ethics of scientific advancement and the very essence of life. The scientific experiments of the time, aiming to understand and even replicate life, provided a fertile ground for her imagination.
• Personal Loss and the Fear of the Unnatural: Shelley experienced profound grief with the loss of her mother and later her own children. This personal experience of death and the potential for “unnatural” creation likely fueled her exploration of a being brought to life through artificial means and the subsequent tragedy that ensued.
• The Power of Myth and the Sublime: The idea of creating life, of playing God, is an ancient human fascination. Shelley tapped into this, blending it with the Romantic fascination for the sublime – the awe-inspiring, yet terrifying, power of nature and human endeavor.

Both Poe and Shelley, in their distinct ways, explored the anxieties of their times, the fragility of the human mind and body, and the intoxicating, often dangerous, allure of the unknown. Their horror was deeply rooted in the human experience, albeit amplified and distorted for terrifying effect.

The Evolution of Fear: Blatty and King’s Transformative Impact

Fast forward to the latter half of the 20th century, and the landscape of horror had broadened considerably. Authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King didn’t just build upon the foundations of their predecessors; they fundamentally altered the architecture of terror.

William Peter Blatty and the Resurgence of Supernatural Dread:

Blatty’s The Exorcist was a seismic event in horror. While supernatural threats existed before, Blatty’s novel brought a visceral, intensely religious horror to the forefront. His genius lay in:

• Grounding the Supernatural in the Real: He took a seemingly ordinary family and an everyday setting and plunged them into extraordinary, terrifying events. This made the horror feel all the more potent because it could, theoretically, happen to anyone.
• Exploring Faith and Doubt: The Exorcist delved into the battle between good and evil, faith and disbelief, and the terrifying possibility that malevolent forces could possess and corrupt even the innocent. This psychological and spiritual dimension resonated deeply with audiences.
• Unflinching Realism in the Face of the Unexplained: Despite the supernatural elements, Blatty presented the demonic possession with a horrifyingly realistic depiction of physical and psychological torment, blurring the lines between the tangible and the infernal.

Stephen King: The Master of Modern Anxiety:

Stephen King, arguably the most prolific and influential horror writer of our time, has transformed the genre by making the mundane terrifying and by tapping into the collective anxieties of modern life. His impact is multifaceted:

• Relatable Characters and Settings: King excels at creating ordinary people in extraordinary, often horrifying, circumstances. His characters are flawed, relatable, and deeply human, making their struggles against the forces of evil all the more compelling. His settings often feel familiar – small towns, suburban houses – making the intrusion of horror feel all the more shocking.
• The Breadth of Horror: King’s monsters aren’t confined to ghosts or demons. He explores cosmic horrors (like in It), technological terrors, the monstrousness of human nature, and the psychological horrors of addiction, grief, and trauma. He’s a chameleon, masterfully adapting to and defining various subgenres of horror.
• The Power of Childhood Fears: Many of King’s most iconic stories tap into the primal fears of childhood – the monster under the bed, the lurking stranger, the loss of innocence. He understands that these early anxieties can linger and become even more potent in adulthood.
• Social Commentary Woven into Terror: King often uses his horror narratives to explore social issues and contemporary anxieties, from racism and prejudice in The Outsider to the emptiness of consumer culture in The Long Walk. His stories are often a reflection of the world around us, amplified to terrifying proportions.

The Throughline of Fear:

What connects Poe and Shelley to Blatty and King? It’s the fundamental human capacity for fear, coupled with the author’s ability to tap into our deepest anxieties, whether they are existential dread, the fear of the unknown, the fragility of sanity, or the encroaching darkness in the seemingly ordinary.

Poe gave us the internal descent into madness. Shelley showed us the terrifying consequences of unchecked ambition and the “unnatural.” Blatty brought the battle between good and evil into our homes and churches. And King, in his vast and varied career, has made us question the safety of our neighborhoods, the demons within ourselves, and the terrifying possibilities that lurk just a page away.

The art of horror is a constantly evolving beast. It adapts, it transforms, and it continues to enthrall us by reminding us, in the most exhilarating and terrifying ways, of our own vulnerabilities and the vast, mysterious darkness that surrounds us. And for that, we owe a deep debt of gratitude to these masters of the macabre, past and present.

Day 245

Writing exercise

…

The winds howled down the street as though the air itself knew what was happening and was not happy about it.

Did that mean the universe, such as it was, was in agreement with me, or with Annie.

My thoughts were swirling in unison with the wind, circling, not settling for a straight line, choosing to pick up leaves and dump them on me.

Did that mean I was wrong?

I had simply reacted as anyone would when they got a telephone call from one of their friends telling them they saw the woman you were supposed to be marrying in a week in a passionate embrace with her ex-boyfriend.

He had dumped her, and she had landed in my arms. Nearly all of my friends said I was a fool, that she would always go back, that the six years of history between them couldn’t be erased in a rebound romance, no matter how much I wanted it.

That was the thing. I had loved her from the first time I’d seen her 10 years ago, but never told her. Not until the big, public, awful breakup.

There’s no fool like an old fool, too good to be true; there was any number of sayings I could use.

Of course, hearing that news sent shock waves through me, and where I should have laughed it off, and had complete confidence in her commitment to me, there was the old demon that lacked self-confidence, that always had doubts I was good enough, that my friends were telling the truth.

And that demon took me to her, confronted her, and, well, now there wasn’t a wedding. No satisfactory explanation, angry words that couldn’t be taken back, and a lesson learned.

I was going home to throw a few possessions into a bag, and I was leaving on the late train to anywhere but Deepwater Falls.

…

Sitting on the railway station platform, listening to the wind howling through the trees and shuddering with the cold that was being picked up from the snow-peaked mountains, it was a different type of purgatory.

Because of Annie, I was being forced to leave the place I loved, the place I called home.

I was going to leave anyway, before Annie, but becoming friends with her had changed my life. I kept to myself, and most kids kept their distance, only that jerk of a boyfriend she had before me, and a few of his cohorts preferred to bully people like me and others, because they could.

Now he would be insufferable. A loser before, a mega loser now. Well, I’d be a mega loser in another town. A long, long, long way away from the Falls. Antony could have her and the town. There was not much left after the highway bypassed it. Anyone who was anyone had already gone, and my parents were too old to move on.

Another sharp gust of wind sent a new round of shivers through me. The train was late.

i was the only person other than the station master at the station. When I went to the ticket office and he saw me, he just nodded. “Anywhere but here?”

“I bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard it?”

“No, and not the last. I reckon I’ll be the last and get to turn the lights off. New York or San Francisco?”

I could go either way.

“New York. Then Martha’s Vineyard, but I have to tell my Gran I’m coming first.”

“Pity about the…”

I knew what he meant. The town had been looking forward to something good happening, and everyone was invited to the wedding.

I simply shrugged and walked quickly to the waiting room, a little better protected from the wind than sitting on a bench on the platform.

Now, when I looked up, there was another person, backpack in hand, standing in the doorway.

The last person I expected to see.

Annie.

She looked at me for a moment, then sat on the other side of the room, about ten feet away.

Five minutes of utter silence reigned until she spoke first. “I’m sorry, Eddie. Very, very sorry.”

It was a bit late for apologies, if it was an apology. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. But somewhere in amongst the condemnation of her behaviour, and my lack of trust, and having the time for the temper to cool, there was this small crack in the brick wall I was building, and through it I could see a girl who was confused, unable to firmly commit to one thing or another.

Anton was poison personified, and he had infected her. Time away from Anton had almost cured her, but his move on her a week or more, perhaps before the wedding, had the intended effect. If he couldn’t have her, no one could, much less me.

It had been a calculated move, preying on her vulnerability when her emotions would be all over the place, and he had succeeded.

Of course, the feelings in me were still running high. “Why are you here?” The tone was hardly conciliatory, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t stay here either. Everyone has turned against me.”

“Why? Your family is the town; they wouldn’t dare.”

More important than Antony’s surprisingly, considering how they big-noted themselves. It was why Annie and Antony were always expected to get together. It was why I never stood a chance. We had not lived in the town since it was created, way back when the indians camped by the river and hunted buffalo.

“Apparently, I ruined the only good thing to happen to me. My parents disowned me, told me I’d humiliated them. You too, they said. The one person who loved me for me, not because I am a Huckerby. And they’re right, Eddie. I let Antony get to me, and I ruined everything.”

The break in her voice told me she was on the very edge of breaking down, and then a few seconds later, I could hear her sobbing quietly, trying to hide it from me.

It didn’t mean she was contrite or sorry, only that she had let her parents down.

The train was coming, its horn piercing the night air, as it warned traffic that it was approaching a level crossing, about a mile from the station.

I stood. Time to go out.

“I was going to marry you, Eddie. What happened shouldn’t have. I was over him, finally, but I was out with friends who I thought were friends, and they invited him, just for a lark. And all those pre-wedding jitters, I had too much to drink and … and … that’s not even an excuse.”

The train was at the end of the platform, slowing to a stop.

“I don’t know what to say, Annie.”

“Let me come with you?”

“You’re really leaving?”

OK. I thought she had simply come down to try and talk me out of leaving. I never thought or believed for a moment she would go. She could have the pick of any man she wanted in the Falls or anywhere.

“Well, I can’t stay here. And you are the only one I know who cares about me, even though at the moment you must hate me more than anything.”

“You risked everything on the chance I still cared?”

“I know you do. I know you’ve loved me forever. I was too stupid or too wrapped up in my own little world to notice, not until Antony dumped me, and you were there to pick up the pieces.”

The train stopped, and I could see the station master come out of his office.

He watched Annie and me walk to the end of the carriage.

“I don’t deserve another chance, but if there’s just a small part of you that still has feelings for me, or wants to give me one last chance…”

She stood there, tears running freely down her cheeks, the look on her face the most beautiful I had ever seen, and it melted my heart right there. I had hoped she would come; it would be a sign, but I was not going to make it easy for her.

I held out my hand.

“I’m going to Grans. You know she hates you, so if your willing to brave her, then please, come with me.”

She smiled.

“You are not going to let me off easily, are you?”

“Did you think I would?”

“No, and I deserve it. But like you, I know that one day she will love me as much as you do.”

Just above the wind, I heard the station master yell out, “Get on the blasted train before I freeze to death,” and then blow the whistle.

We didn’t need to be asked twice.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025