The Love Particle

                                                            Are chick flicks dangerous?

Love is all chemicals. We know that. And yet we crave it. We love to get lost in its magical aspects. Pondering over those never changing questions: Does he like me? Am I his type? What should I say? What should I wear? We're addicted to romance. Walking hand in hand, receiving sweet text messages and accepting flowers on anniversaries. It fills our stomach with butterflies that flutter either briefly, for quite a while or forever. And we just can't get enough. What is it about this fairy tale that makes it so desirable? Are we stuck in some phase that makes us believe we're a princess about to be saved by a knight in shining armour? And if he arrives, on horseback naturally, how do we recognise him? How are we to know he's not the villain of our fairy tale? Men do not speak their mind (like we do). They hate that one question: What are you thinking? Their motives are only discovered too late.

So when our princess is locked up in a tall tower with only her long, curly hair for a rope, what are we to do? We wait for our Prince Charming. But we're not patient. We give in to temptation and settle for the Prince's understudy. A handsome, nice enough chap who's fun to be with. But something's missing. It's that ''thing''. That spark - whatever the Hell that is. And the longer we fool ourselves into thinking he's worth staying with, the more flaws we notice. It might be something as insignificant as a loud, embarrassing laugh or bad table manners. But small flaws are soon magnified and they stomp over our hopes and dreams like an elephant in a rage. So we part ways. It's what we do. And the search continues. But how many people find their own Mr. Darcy or even their own Hugh Grant (in Notting Hill mind you, not Bridget Jones)?

We've seen too many chick flicks. Our kisses aren't accompanied by an Oscar-nominated musical score and our sex scenes don't end with the morning-after euphoria of breakfast in bed - at least most of us don't get that lucky. Our kisses are more of a ''what the hell is he doing'' and we awake the next morning thinking; where did he go? And love at first sight, that most dangerous myth of all, exists only in fiction. We tell ourselves the men we go out with share our hopes and fears, but do they? When all is said and done, how can we separate the perverts from the princes? How do we know they don't just want to get in our pants? We talk to them. And then there's the smooth ones. The ones who've had the most practise - the masters of seduction. At least Casanova was interesting. Most of his successors shouldn't even be allowed to stand in his shadow.

Fan-favourite Spike: the suitor we face in real life. 

And still....we don't give up. Why? Because we've been fed the myth of romance since childood. How did it get started? With Barbie (an anatomically perfect blonde babe) and Ken (a sexually challenged surfer dude). And then there's the inescapably sweet Disney classics. So in retrospect, there's only one thing we can do to forget about our singleton woes: we should sue Disney and hit the town with our girlfriends. It's time for a good rant. Until our next victim stops by that is. Love is pain. Even more so when we realise the love we felt was a fantasy. They say chocolate causes the same effect in the brain as an orgasm. So perhaps we should stock up on sweets until Mr. Right sweeps us off our feet.

Regency Scene - Past Indiscretions

A continuation of: http://renate-villerius.blogspot.com/2010/12/bachelor-visits-regency-scene.html

“That’s settled, then. We will send out invitations later this week. There is no fixed date as of yet for the ball but I hope to secure the Crown Inn. They have a ball room that is divine. Naturally, Harley Manor was my first choice but with our extensive guest list, I fear we would be unable to accommodate everyone.”

In Audrey’s opinion, this was no great compliment to Harley Manor but her mother was quite ignorant of these matters. Her father, a very wealthy landowner, was better suited to supervise such delicate situations but business called him away so Josephine was in charge until his return a week from now. Mr. Sharpe took his leave, wished them the very best and expressed his delight at the prospective ball. As the door closed behind him, Mrs. Hamilton ordered some fresh tea and announced her plans for the blissful event.

“You must have new gowns, of course! You cannot stand up with such a man dressed like a farmer’s daughter,” she exclaimed. The critique was aimed at Audrey’s evening dress; creamy silk with a plunging neckline and puff sleeves with ribbon trimmings – purchased only the month before and still considered the height of fashion. But objections were fruitless; no one could reason with such a creature as her mother. “You shall look your very best. All past indiscretions shall be forgotten. All it takes is one dance with that gentleman. A smile and a few words of kindness should do the trick,” she continued

Audrey rarely danced. Not due to some inaptitude on her part but because there were few gentlemen whose company she could tolerate, let alone appreciate or enjoy. Most young men adjourned to London at the commencement of the season, leaving her locked away in the country with old fogies, clergymen and bores. At the beginning of her career as an adult and woman in search of a husband, she had been dispatched to London for a proper coming-out. But after a dozen balls, they had been forced to admit that her admirers, though loyal and clever, applied to her for friendship rather than courtship.

One marriage proposal was received by an elderly gentleman, a second son of a duke. The gentleman professed his love after a cup of tea, biscuit still in hand. But due to his lack of fortune and connections, not to mention the perfect indifference on her side, he was refused. Spiteful and hurt, he spoke of his rejection amongst friends and Audrey’s conduct towards him was pronounced misleading and deceitful. Wherever she went, this supposed error in judgement haunted her and she soon quit London entirely, never to return.

“If all goes well, we may even relocate to London. Should you not like to visit Town? It has been too long, I declare. Surely, your past vices have long been forgotten. It is many years since you were last there. They will have new scandals to speak of.” But on this point Audrey would not surrender.

“I have not the slightest intention of revisiting the place of my only failure.” Though she considered her punishment disproportionate to the crime, the fault was hers; through her youthful enthusiasm and unguarded nature, she had allowed him to believe an attachment had formed between them.

“You are too hard on yourself, my dear. Think of how much you have grown since then. It would be perfectly safe for us to sojourn there. I will not let you jeopardise your future. Your fear is understandable but with all you have to offer to the world, it must be overcome.”

Audrey was silent. Her mother meant well – supported and comforted her when disappointments crossed her path. Though Audrey had always been her favourite, after her scandal her hopes were transferred to Audrey’s younger sister, Catherine, who was recently married to a Duke.

“Besides, with your sister’s recent successes, your reputation will have increased. Only imagine how eager all those fine young men will be to be seen with you.”

Against such sound arguments, even Audrey could not but yield. “Very well. We shall go to London. But we have scarcely any acquaintance in Town. Who shall we call on during our stay?” It worried her. Her friends and relations were not such as possessed townhouses. Instead, they remained in the country, just as they had done for so many years.

“That isn’t true. Mr. Beckham will be in Town. He informed me of the fact only a fortnight ago at Mrs. Berry’s picnic. Apparently, he owns a large townhouse near Grosvenor Square.”

This was no great inducement for Audrey to go to London; Mr. Beckham purchased a big estate in the neighbourhood some weeks ago. Once settled in the community, he called on his neighbours to introduce himself as was the custom. However, when he was expected at Harley Manor, he sent word that he was unable to favour them with a visit and excused himself to join a hunting party up north. Hunting! How could it take precedence over his neighbourly duties? As of yet, all she has learned of his character has been through mutual friends, who were fortunate enough to be granted an audience with His Pompousness.

Mrs. Hamilton was kinder in her assessment of his person; the general opinion of his character was so favourable that it had impressed upon her the belief that all had been some mysterious misunderstanding that he sought to rectify as soon as possible. As such, she spoke very highly of him with unrelenting speeches about his intentions to visit them for an introduction.

Perhaps if it had not been for these many tedious remarks on the subject, Audrey would have forgiven his folly and reserved her judgement until in company with him. But, as it was, the many accounts of his generous nature and good breeding only made his ill treatment of them more strongly-felt. A gentleman so easily swayed from his responsibilities could not in essence be a good man.

The Sense and Sensibility Bicentenary Challenge 2011

Can you believe it? 

As of this year, Sense and Sensibility was published 200 years ago. And yet, when reading the book or watching the adaptations, it doesn't seem that way. In celebration of its bicentenary, they are holding a reading challenge over at Austenprose.

                                                           -swoon-

I admit I've never read the novel (but recently bought Jane Austen's novels at Amazon) but seen the famous 1995 adaptation with the wonderful Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon and more recently the mini-series from 2008. I don't own the particular edition Austenprose lists. Instead, I bought the edition below because of the lovely covers, maps and cutesy appeal.

The edition I bought in all its girlishness

Now, I don't own any of the Jane Austen sequels - because, let's face it, who can live up to her genius, anyway? The only one I own is Pride and Prejudice and Zombies but I never even finished reading that one. 

I do admit that Colonel Brandon's diary sounds interesting because of the more literary nature of those works. But until I know for sure I can get my hands on it, I'll keep it safely nestled on my wish list. From Prada to Nada also sounds entertaining but I couldn't find it on Amazon so I doubt I'll manage to get it in time.

My mother owns the screenplay by Emma Thompson but she lives in another country so that's not going to happen either...

With these limitations, I'll be forced to content myself with the original novel and a few adaptations. As of now, I commit myself to the following:

Level of participation: Neophyte: 1 – 4 selections

Books:

Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

Movies:

Sense and Sensibility - 1995
Sense and Sensibility - 2008

Living History: Reenacting Jane Austen

We are all familiar with the books of Jane Austen, spend rainy Sunday afternoons swooning over Mr. Darcy and wish we could step into Elizabeth’s lucky footsteps. Now, you might not get to meet Mr. Darcy, but reenactment allows you to travel through time and enter a different life. Events are held all across the world where people indulge in this strange hobby. So, what’s the appeal? As an experienced regency re-enactor I will share some of my experiences and photographs with you.

                                                           at my first ball with my aunt

I first heard about the society through my aunt, who co-founded it after experiencing a lack of civilian re-enactment groups. Many people were interested in the period itself rather than the military element. From the desire to demonstrate middle-class regency life, the society was born and quickly, my whole family joined. Made up of period piece enthusiasts, it was no difficult task to convince them. I was only twelve years old when I attended my first event – a ball in a real castle!

I wasn't even officially a member at that point but it opened my eyes to a new, exciting world where I not only inhabited a regency heroine and got to dance with dashing rogues (who were perhaps a cook or accountant in real life), but it also deepened my love for history. Being involved in living history requires some effort on your part and whoever would like to take up this marvellous hobby, should take the following issues into consideration:

                                                                           a peek at our wardrobe

• ·         You are in charge of your own costumes. Although members might let you borrow a gown or two when you’re just getting started, there are patterns available from the period so get your sewing kit out! I can tell you in advance that recreating a historical costume takes a lot of work, patience and fitting. You wouldn’t be the first one to cut off the wrong part or sew something on backwards. Through experience, you will become more proficient in creating your own historically accurate outfits. Just do some research on fabric and colour. I’ve seen one too many ladies in dresses that reminded me of Barbie goes to Prom.

                                                           attending a Regency wedding in church

• ·          Events can take place internationally so depending on your location and commitment, there will be some travel expenses. You will need to bring your costume and accessories, food, etc. You’ll need a car to get all your stuff safely (and in good condition!) to the event.

sipping tea on our country estate; I'm in white

• ·         Read, research, refine. If you’re going to portray someone from another period, you will need to know how they talked, sat, acted and so on. Familiarise yourself with the etiquette and the history of the period so you know what was going on in the world. There’s another excuse to re-watch Pride and Prejudice or Persuasion.

dance and dinner at a ball; I'm wearing the red dress

• ·        Dancing lessons. If you want to actually dance at a ball, you will have to take regency dancing lessons. It's my favourite part of the experience. Mastering the dances takes a lot of time and energy. During every dance rehearsal we had several moments were we said: "Wrong way, Mr. Collins!" I know of several regency dancing troupes in the U.K. so that is something worth checking out. And just think, next time you’ll watch a period drama on the BBC, you’ll be able to pinpoint what dance they’re using and trace their footsteps to refresh your memory. 

                                                          fishing with my sister and uncle

If you have the time and money to invest in this hobby, I highly recommend it. Through my society, I attended balls, picnics, hunting parties, historical weddings and battles. We cultivated idleness and sipped tea for an audience while the men engaged themselves in sport (shooting, for instance). The ladies drew, read books, played old-fashioned games and wrote letters. I’ve also tried fishing at one of the events but there were no fish to be caught. I suppose it wasn’t the season.

                                                              f.l.t.r: my aunt, myself, my sister, my uncle

I’ve been photographed by a dozen people at once (which made me feel like a film star), called Anne Frank (wrong century!) and even once a servant (wrong class!). My favourite events had an international flavour. It enables you to meet like-minded people from all across the world. All those brooding Italians and Spanish soldiers. I even met my first boyfriend through this hobby. Alas, as it turned out he wasn’t my Mr. Darcy. But as I surveyed all those fine specimen of manliness in their military outfits, I perfectly understood Lydia. “Ooh, officers! A man is nothing without regimentals!”

This hobby also has a bit of a theatrical aspect. We sometimes staged scenes, including public arguments between different groups/classes of re-enactors. To make matters easier, we decided on a character to play for the duration of our membership. Because my mother, sister, both aunts and uncle were all members we created a regency family so we could still be related in our new fantasy world. Under this regency name, I wrote diary entries. It gave me my first taste of historical fiction and I enjoyed it immensely. Our society also had a magazine with useful tips and information, interviews, recipes, etc.

                                                                      my family in the beginning of our adventure

Links about living history:

http://www.livinghistory.co.uk/

http://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/LivingHistory.htm

http://www.littlewoodham.org.uk/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_historical_reenactment_groups

Regency dancing groups:

http://www.hrd.org.uk/Hampshire_Regency_Dancers/Welcome.html

http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/regencyplaydancers/

If you have any questions, please let me know in the comment box and I will get back to you. 

New Year's Literary Resolutions

Happy New Year!

May 2011 become a year of success, great happiness and wisdom. I hope my fellow-writers will achieve their literary goals and get the recognition they deserve. As for me, I only have a few New Year's Resolutions and they're fairly modest and realistic.

-drumroll-

My goals for the upcoming year are as follows:

• To continue improving my craft through constant exercise
• To get a short story published in an anthology
• To enter writing competitions to get my work out there
• To finish the first draft of my manuscript 
• To undertake further training in a creative writing course

Definitely doable, right?

I have already made my payment for the Brit Writers' Awards so I am putting the finishing touches on my requirements for resolution #3. A good beginning of the new year! I have added a few new links to my writing directory so I can soon move on to #2 and #5. Wish me luck! With all the talent we have out there, I'm going to need it.

A 100-Word Garden Gnomes Study

Life is tough as a garden gnome. No one takes you seriously. Maybe it’s the fluffy exterior; but make no mistake, I know taekwondo! We stand on guard quite concrete still but statues we are not. As soon as the world is sleeping, we meet up at Garden Gnome HQ. We discuss strategies, hunt down enemies and our latest gadgets are explained. Garden gnome education focuses on two skills: martial arts and gardening. Gnomes that fail the fitness test or kill the plants are dispatched to Ireland for a special mission: hiding our pots of gold. They mostly drink Guinness. 

The Isle of Man

                                                                                                Man in all its Da Vinci splendour

When you read the title of my blog, it probably brings back memories of exotic holiday destinations, islands, cocktails (a word whose origin I've always been curious about), etc. But I do not refer to the small isle you may have learned to associate with The Isle of Man. In my mind, it is Men Planet. Men Headquarters from which all secret operations are discussed and executed. You see, the way dogs mark their territory with a golden surprise, the territory of a man too can be easily recognised. There are certain similarities that should make an alarm of suspicion blare in your head. When comparing bacherlors' apartments, they all seem alike.

The greyness of their walls and coldness of their interior is a familiar sight for any woman lured to the predator's nest. A porn tape may be stashed away in a distant closet no female hand is allowed to touch (unless of course the high-quality work of filmmaking is to be enjoyed together), but small signs of perversion aside, all bachelor pads seem designed by the same person. There is a high availability of high-fi technological devices such as flatscreens, stereos and computers, which by the way, is a topic of conversation best left untouched if you do not wish to be bored to death by a lengthy speech on the subject (their inner nerd is shy, but when provoked, strangely enthusiastic).

When it comes to cultural miracles such as art, books and soothing, instrumental music, a man's apartment is oft completely devoid of these things. Men are more interested in a comfortable, practical home so they can lie on the sofa after a long day of work and watch TV (meaning sports, porn or action flicks).

These modern day bachelors are an odd breed altogether. Most consider a woman won the second her foot steps over the threshold of their front door. All ambition to seduce a woman properly and lead her down the sinful path of temptation is stifled once she agrees to have a cup of coffee at his place or however you wish to phrase it. As if agreeing to such a thing means consensual sex is a sure thing. For a man, showing a woman his home is the last step. And once a woman is seduced into his bed, what is next? Most relationships do not survive a night of passion - or five minutes of frustration in some cases.

So when you are brought to such an apartment, what does that say about you? After all, should a home not reflect the personality of its owner? Indeed, are women secretly attracted to the kind of man who would want to inhabit such a place? Do they want cheap thrills? We tell ourselves we don't. Yet the macho man in leather jacket often lures us to his trap. Opposites attract, but the macho man can only be bed, not wed.

With a one-night stand, we have no standards. But what do we look for, for a long-term relationship? Our expectations are unrealistic perhaps. That a dashing young man will approach us in slow-motion like in commercials and whisper some intellectually stimulating pick-up line such as: "You're hot. Are you new?" An image that does not correspond with our imaginary future boyfriend encounters. We romanticise men. Why? It makes reality a bit more bearable. Some of them must be decent. Surely. But they're all taken...Are they?

Poetry - Reluctant Princess

And with a solemn sigh I said: "No."

When you asked me: "Shall we wed?"
No ring on my finger or on thine
No stranger in this bed of mine

I shall not borne thee sons or daughters
Groomed like bunnies that one slaughters
A porcelain doll I refuse to be
For a man’s fleeting idolatry

To lead me down the aisle in white

And corrupt me come the wedding night
I shine and shall be seen by all
With suitors worthy, fine and tall

That awaits those who woo and chase
Only the most eligible face
I prithee, Father, help me flee
Make me princess of a nunnery

Regency Scene - A Bachelor Visits

Harley Manor was all aflutter that morning - the maids whispered of intrigue and bachelors. As usual, they were right. There was quite an uproar in the Hamilton residence - the eligible Mr. Sharpe had unexpectedly come to call and Audrey sat in the drawing room immaculately groomed and with all the awkwardness in conversation her pestering relations invariably inflicted through their incessant encouragements.

Although Miss Hamilton was of good family, education and sense, her mother had never regarded her notions concerning her marital state as of any consequence. Her disinclination to marry had been discarded as a folly of youth but as the years passed and she reached the age of two and twenty, she gained a reputation as a bit of a spinster.

But Audrey simply enjoyed the peace and quiet. She was a spinster without the characteristic lack of charm and means. Quite the contrary, when in her element and left to her own devices, Audrey could be described as lively, pleasant and sarcastic, though agreeably so. But with her mother looming over her petite figure, her personality shrinked in response and she grew taciturn, reserved - closed.

Mr. Sharpe, fashionably dressed and in possession of a fine pair of sideburns and brooding good looks, was received cordially, even graciously by the lady of the house. But as for the heiress of the family, she cast him simply indifferent looks and longingly glanced outside, filling his imagination with visions of Miss Hamilton engaged in all sorts of active employment such as horseback riding and archery. He sensed that her mother's presence affected her disposition and became only curious to learn more about his unwilling hostess.

"You live very comfortably. I daresay you spend your time tolerable well here," he said in an attempt to gain access to the inner workings of her mind. When the daughter gently sighed at the poor excuse of conversation, the mother took over.

"Oh, yes! It is very good of you to call and you are most welcome here. I shall certainly add you to the guest list of our little ball," Mrs. Hamilton remarked nonchalantly to steer the conversation toward a more intimate setting for their acquaintance.

"A ball? How delightful. And when will it take place? I have heard little about it," James Sharpe observed, having in truth heard nothing at all. Audrey roused herself from her thoughts to amuse herself by acting the part of the huntress.

"It is a great secret and you are the first to hear of it. You will come, won't you?" she batted her eyelashes and moved her fan to and fro to assume a more delicate manner befitting her new part. Josephine nearly squeaked with delight but covered up her pleasure by smiling generously at her tapestries.James shared her love for the theatre and quickly recognised the game she had entered and promptly followed suit.

"Napoleon himself couldn't stop me."

Audrey could barely contain her coquettish expression and smiled.
"Well, then I suppose you are the first confirmed guest. How marvelous. We must instantly look to the seating arrangements to accommodate Mr. Sharpe," she informed her daughter.

"You may seat him by me. There is nothing so stimulating as dinner table conversation. We shall bond over such subject matters as who wears the best pair of breeches and who tripped over his feet on the dance floor," she airily suggested, having only in mind her intention to avoid Mr. Beckham. Horrid man. Josephine, quite oblivious to her ill-founded dislike, deduced from the remark that her daughter had taken a fancy to a man at last. And an eligible bachelor, even! How splendid!

To Mr. Sharpe this merely meant he had now entered a more friendly sphere in Miss Hamilton's acquaintance and as he had no mercenary interest in the lady, he sought only to widen his social circle in seeking out her company - which was said to be entertaining and prone to diverting remarks.
"I shall look forward to such a comparative study," he assented, much to everyone's satisfaction.

Short Story - Motionless

I did not feel her mouth as she kissed me. Nor the raindrops feasting on my skin. But I remember how I used to walk down this narrow, cobblestone path. Glowing with the smile of youth and a dollop of ice-cream on my chin. I steal a glance at a distant football field and the past dances before my eyes.  I had the best kick of all the boys on the football team.

''The Tornadoes'' I had dubbed our team of which I was the leader. They handed me a shiny medal with a star on my last day of primary school. ‘’Most likely to be successful,’’ it read and my parents flashed their cameras and hung the pictures in the living room for all the neighbours to see.

‘’He’s got a bright future,’’ my mum would say over a cup of gossip and a slice of cake. My neighbours visited often.
‘’That’s what happens when women don’t work,’’ my father whispered.
‘’They stay home, do the dishes and turn into chocolate-eating soap opera enthusiasts. And that, my boy, is not what men want.‘’

I wanted to ask him why. But I didn’t. I liked chocolate and sometimes mum would let me watch the telly with her and we’d worry over the latest kidnap plot together. Would I end up like her? Inviting neighbours over for a calorie fest and indulging in brainless entertainment? A housewife. Apron strapped across my chest and the aroma of culinary delights slithering from the kitchen door. But I had my men activities.

Climbing trees, collecting toy cars and chasing the pig-tailed girls in the park. But everything was different now. Secondary school would make me a man. ‘’I am one of them now,’’ I thought as I strutted down this very path, the stones weeping beneath my feet.  I did not talk like them or walk like them, but I could try. I practised in front of the mirror, posing with sunglasses and a leather jacket from my father’s closet. With cool, macho strides I made my way across the room. It felt natural, intimidating and slightly theatrical – in a cool, masculine way of course.

I transitioned from tree house captain to class president and years passed in the blink of an eye. Study I rarely did, but this was hardly reflected in my grades, which ‘’was a sign of remarkable cleverness’’ according to Mrs. Millton, our English teacher. Parties were frequently abandoned for a night of teenage passion with one of the many girlfriends I had. Their mindless giggling and fashion tips bored me.

‘’I want three kids when I grow up,’’ Wendy, the first girl I slept with, informed me on the moment of entry. The useless piece of information weakened my resolve and we were forced to postpone our little adventure. Needless to say, every time we made love (well, it was love to her anyway and let’s leave it at that) I pictured Wendy as a middle-aged woman dressed in an oversized shirt, eating cake and organising tea parties to discuss the latest TV drama. Was I going to marry my mother?

My performances during that relationship were less that inspired. I was knocked off my feet, literally, when I bumped into Helen at the local coffee shop. A college student with fiery red hair and a devious personality to match, my heart leapt into my throat when our eyes met. I stared at her with a vacant expression for what felt like an eternity until she spoke and I was released from my trance.

‘’Hello,’’ she addressed me.  I grinned like an idiot and mumbled a greeting in return. We made out for the next hour and my lips felt sore when I finally reached my bed. Helen. Helen. She made me want to sing and dance and laugh and scream. All at the same time. She was Helen of Troy. The fairest of them all. And she was mine. For the first time in my life, I was in love. The forced poetry assignment took flight and earned me the nickname ‘’Will’’ after William Shakespeare.

It also spoke to Helen’s sentimental girly heart and her messages became more and more lovey. Either too juvenile or too mature to deal with it, I broke up with her and caused quite a scene when my next poem jumped from lovesick to heartbreak to murder.

It was the beginning of my career as a writer, a study I pursued at university and ended with a degree in journalism and a job at the local newspaper. Obituaries, not the kind of articles you pour your heart and soul into to sculpt the ideal linguistic piece of art. But it was a start. So, with my youth forgotten like yesterday’s caramel-coated donut, what now?

The path is no fluffy mattress – its embrace painful rather than loving. I know that now. The past is gone. And I am here. The fresh smell of blood is clinging to my lips. I wait for them. Surely she’s called them by now. Her kisses tickled me. She’s a tease, always was. But caring.

Here they come, stretcher in hand. I feel light-headed as they lift me and I close my eyes so the world may stop spinning.
I awake. That familiar beeping of a heart monitor trespassing dreams.

‘’Where am I?’’ My voice sounds different yet the same. Weak yet strong. Confused.
‘’You’re safe now.’’ It is her and it takes me a moment for my brain to register that she’s holding my hand.
‘’They kicked you because you got in their way. They pushed you out of your wheelchair.’’ There is sadness in her voice but her smile only grows wider to conceal it.

I steal a glance at the object in the corner and remember – I am cripple. I cannot walk and it’s many years since I last played football. One fall down the stairs and life as you know it – gone. Forever.
''The Tornadoes'' they called us. And I was their leader.