Books, Fiction, Writing

An excerpt from “Misty Hollow” – The Shadow Walker Series

There is something to be envied for those that do not dream. To sleep in blissful ignorance every night and wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not for me. Every night I relive the same dream over and over again. The same scene, the same effects and the same ending that leaves me frustrated. And tonight is no different.

 

A coveted sky like a black, satin sheet sprinkled with thousands of tiny, delicate sparkling diamonds dazzle above me. The cool, fine, golden sand beneath my feet feels very familiar. This domain is no stranger to me, I’ve been stuck in this groundhog dream for the past three years.

The glowing moon offers the only form of light. After my first few visits here, I realised that I was never going to get the bright, hypnotic sphere in my hands, but it still doesn’t stop me from trying to reach out.

Walking forwards, I take in the familiar scenery. To my left, the waves from the sea repeat an exact timed performance dancing teasingly towards my feet, never once touching my skin. The silence was slightly disconcerting. Not a solitary sound to penetrate the night.

 

My long, white dress clings to me like a second skin, there is no wind not even a mischievous breeze yet my dress flutters making my skin feel as though it’s being caressed by thousands of delicate butterfly wings. It almost appears luminous in the moonlight. This is the one part of this strange illusion I wouldn’t change, I liked the dress. Its thin elegant straps and plain design are perfect as far as a dress can be. I glance behind me to see the dress dance along the golden, sugar sand and as always there is no trace of my footprints, not even a slight indentation where I’ve stepped. The sand is perfectly undisturbed, I can only assume that it’s part of the illusion and not due to the self-misconception of believing that I am so light on my feet that I leave no imprint in the sand. Despite my endless return trips here, I always find myself doing the same things I usually do.

 

Picturesque and tranquil surroundings are somewhat utopic. The sand dunes protrude, protectively high to my right. Up ahead I see the lighthouse standing proud, high up on the cliff edge, that’s when I realise that I’m not alone. Up ahead, directly below the lighthouse at the base of the cliff is a figure. Between the moonlight and the crepuscular shadows from the cliff it gives the impression that it is moving but never closing in.

 

My eyes try desperately to focus on it. Step after step, my own legs betraying me taking me closer towards the dark presence. My mind is fighting a losing battle with my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest threatening to break out with each beat. I can’t be more than fifty feet away when my focus starts to become more comprehensible. It glides towards me in a hypnotic pace. Both of us stop at exactly the same time almost as though we were linked. The figure is wearing a dark hooded cloak that moves as if it is liquid velvet. The hood is shadowing the face beneath so I can’t see who or what it is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was hovering above the sand. So many emotions flit through my mind, curiosity, confusion, anxiety, worry, all at once. Suddenly the waves stop, coming to a complete standstill mid wave. The beacon for the lighthouse comes to a stop pointing out to sea.

 

The cloaked figure makes no attempt to close the last thread of distance between us. My heart is beating so hard that my whole body feels as though it’s vibrating. I try to take a step forward but my legs feel heavy, my arms hang down my sides unable to move. My eyes are locked onto the figure in front of me. My whole body refuses to do what my mind is telling it. Something appears behind the figure. I didn’t notice it before until now as it looms threateningly over the smaller one. The new figure is cloaked too, dark and ragged. Two pale, skeletal hands emerge at either side of the smaller cloaked hood from behind. Thin, boned fingers wrap around the edges of the cloaks hood slowly beginning to draw the liquid material back. Just then, I hear I deep, cavernous growl…

 

Eyes wide open I regain my breathing to a more normal pace. I hate the term “normal”; I’ve never believed that anything in this world is normal, far from it to be honest. For the past three years I have had the same recurring dream, as always just as the hood of the cloak is about to be pulled back I wake up! It is really frustrating. Nothing changes, exactly the same thing over and over again. The first few times I started having them I thought I was losing my marbles. In fact, so did Molly, my best friend when I told her. She even offered to perform a lobotomy, just in case. You can always count on your best friend to be there for you, and offer back-street surgeries that hadn’t been around since the turn of the century. So I decided to take the less extreme route and check out one of the dream books from my book/witchcraft store that me, my mum and my gran own. Not that it helped at all. I got so confused when trying to figure out what it all meant that it usually resulted in a killer migraine.

There is something to be envied for those that do not dream. To sleep in blissful ignorance every night and wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not for me. Every night I relive the same dream over and over again. The same scene, the same effects and the same ending that leaves me frustrated. And tonight is no different.

 

A coveted sky like a black, satin sheet sprinkled with thousands of tiny, delicate sparkling diamonds dazzle above me. The cool, fine, golden sand beneath my feet feels very familiar. This domain is no stranger to me, I’ve been stuck in this groundhog dream for the past three years.

The glowing moon offers the only form of light. After my first few visits here, I realised that I was never going to get the bright, hypnotic sphere in my hands, but it still doesn’t stop me from trying to reach out.

Walking forwards, I take in the familiar scenery. To my left, the waves from the sea repeat an exact timed performance dancing teasingly towards my feet, never once touching my skin. The silence was slightly disconcerting. Not a solitary sound to penetrate the night.

 

My long, white dress clings to me like a second skin, there is no wind not even a mischievous breeze yet my dress flutters making my skin feel as though it’s being caressed by thousands of delicate butterfly wings. It almost appears luminous in the moonlight. This is the one part of this strange illusion I wouldn’t change, I liked the dress. Its thin elegant straps and plain design are perfect as far as a dress can be. I glance behind me to see the dress dance along the golden, sugar sand and as always there is no trace of my footprints, not even a slight indentation where I’ve stepped. The sand is perfectly undisturbed, I can only assume that it’s part of the illusion and not due to the self-misconception of believing that I am so light on my feet that I leave no imprint in the sand. Despite my endless return trips here, I always find myself doing the same things I usually do.

 

Picturesque and tranquil surroundings are somewhat utopic. The sand dunes protrude, protectively high to my right. Up ahead I see the lighthouse standing proud, high up on the cliff edge, that’s when I realise that I’m not alone. Up ahead, directly below the lighthouse at the base of the cliff is a figure. Between the moonlight and the crepuscular shadows from the cliff it gives the impression that it is moving but never closing in.

 

My eyes try desperately to focus on it. Step after step, my own legs betraying me taking me closer towards the dark presence. My mind is fighting a losing battle with my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest threatening to break out with each beat. I can’t be more than fifty feet away when my focus starts to become more comprehensible. It glides towards me in a hypnotic pace. Both of us stop at exactly the same time almost as though we were linked. The figure is wearing a dark hooded cloak that moves as if it is liquid velvet. The hood is shadowing the face beneath so I can’t see who or what it is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was hovering above the sand. So many emotions flit through my mind, curiosity, confusion, anxiety, worry, all at once. Suddenly the waves stop, coming to a complete standstill mid wave. The beacon for the lighthouse comes to a stop pointing out to sea.

 

The cloaked figure makes no attempt to close the last thread of distance between us. My heart is beating so hard that my whole body feels as though it’s vibrating. I try to take a step forward but my legs feel heavy, my arms hang down my sides unable to move. My eyes are locked onto the figure in front of me. My whole body refuses to do what my mind is telling it. Something appears behind the figure. I didn’t notice it before until now as it looms threateningly over the smaller one. The new figure is cloaked too, dark and ragged. Two pale, skeletal hands emerge at either side of the smaller cloaked hood from behind. Thin, boned fingers wrap around the edges of the cloaks hood slowly beginning to draw the liquid material back. Just then, I hear I deep, cavernous growl…

 

Eyes wide open I regain my breathing to a more normal pace. I hate the term “normal”; I’ve never believed that anything in this world is normal, far from it to be honest. For the past three years I have had the same recurring dream, as always just as the hood of the cloak is about to be pulled back I wake up! It is really frustrating. Nothing changes, exactly the same thing over and over again. The first few times I started having them I thought I was losing my marbles. In fact, so did Molly, my best friend when I told her. She even offered to perform a lobotomy, just in case. You can always count on your best friend to be there for you, and offer back-street surgeries that hadn’t been around since the turn of the century. So I decided to take the less extreme route and check out one of the dream books from my book/witchcraft store that me, my mum and my gran own. Not that it helped at all. I got so confused when trying to figure out what it all meant that it usually resulted in a killer migraine.

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Books, Fiction, Life, love, Plans, relationships

Real life Bridget Jones

What started off as a rare lapse in time where I am released of my bonds to indulge in some adult company with my cousin, where we enjoyed good food courtesy of Frankie and Benny’s, followed by the much sought-after Bridget Jones’s Baby; ended in the rudely, abrupt and frank realization that I am possibly a real life Bridget Jones!

While this may not have come as a surprise to my cousin; whom did her best not to all but crown me queen of the spinsters,  it did however come as a shock to my self-appointed “queen-of-independence-and-needs-no-man-to-be-happy” ego.

For the better part of over 12 years, I have worn the crown of independent single mother of two with great self-pride. I mentally blessed the freedom I have when I witness a quarreling couple out doing shopping. I regarded my situation to be uniquely satisfying, that I could do as I please without having to consider the needs of a man ( with the exception of my two sons ).

But of an age where I am now on the meaner side of the 30+ years, I seem to be an almost mirror image of the Bridget Jones character, with slight over-exaggeration.

The aptly named song “All by my self” could very well be my own theme tune, forever to play as my constant background music in my life story. Although to give Bridget Jones credit, she did have the affections of two handsome men vying for her attention. I have that too, but on a less romantic scale and more along a nurturing scale!

I have shared her loathe of colleagues and embarrassing moments that will haunt our sub-conscience minds for eternity. I’ve shared her pity parties for one, during annual holiday celebrations where everyone around the world is enjoying the festivities except me. I have sat writing nonsense in diary after diary that has never had any form of consistency, yet could make for a best-selling read. Those times are the lonely ones, but only our half-assed attempt at a diary; will ever know the truth within. Myself and Bridget put on a bravado of couldn’t-fucking-care-less attitude that serves as our force-field and emotional stabilizer. But within those few and far between penned pages lie words that have never been spoken and wishes that will never see the light of day!  For deep within, (way deep within) grained in years of ink, blood, sweat and tears, lies the script of how it is to be a real life Bridget Jones. We are many,  we are all around and we could be surrounded by a 100 friends, but still feel that pang of loneliness at times. But then we begin pondering on whether or not we want to find that missing someone,  or if being the oldest spinster in town is actually a delicacy.

I have friends that will tell you that they think I should settle down, and  have repeatedly tried to convince me to date, but to no avail. The stubborn, independent  voice in my head quickly reminds me that past relationships have been disastrous and have failed to even conjure up a wisp of feelings for the other parties involved. Obviously in the actual Bridget Jones movies, she is reliant on the affections of men and constantly seeks their approval. She seeks commitment and love, but has a long-standing date with denial when it comes to aspects of the heart. I am as far from this is as i can possibly get, but i can’t help sympathize with her cause.

Yes I am single and i came about this part in my life through making the choice to be single, but there are aspects of social appearance and perception that suggests that it is still almost alien to be this way.

I would like to go on record and state that i do hold partial blame on the writers of the world, whether they be script writers or novelists, they lure us into a world of fantasy and romance leaving us wanting to be a part of the book or movie.

I have fallen trap to my own writings too. My own book, Misty Hollow – Shadow Walker Series includes a character that many would class as the mythical “book boyfriend”! The Lord of Vampires, Nikolai is the tall, dark-haired, all-powerful vampire that has women falling at his feet begging for even a second look. I gave the character the ability to be wanted by readers. I wrote my book based on my own dreams and imagination. I gave characters life based on what i wanted and what i thought others would want. Writing gave me an escape from reality and allowed me to be part of a world full of endless possibilities.

With more and more people turning to fiction, i created a place for them to escape too. A place full of people that they could see themselves in and people that they would lust after. That is the good thing about books, they open up worlds galore and introduce us to the key to other people’s imaginations.

But it’s within the pages of John Keats and Charlotte Bronte books, we find ourselves lusting after men that just don’t exist in real life. And that’s partly why we read, so we can read about powerful men in suits that woo us with gifts and all they want in return is the pleasure of our bodies. I mean, who doesn’t find that appealing? But reality doesn’t offer brooding vampires with supernatural abilities that make it hard for us to resist their prowess. Christian Grey is not going to offer us a steamy weekend away and John Wick is not going to avenge us at the same time as taking out an entire mafia all because he hurt our dog. No, in reality we don’t get that, but that is what i want. That is why i chose to remain single.

I have never come across anyone in life that could pass as a potential “book boyfriend” or even close to it. In real life, i have only come across over enthusiastic males that think declaring their undying affections after two minutes is what i want to hear. Or men that need constant attention and hate to be ignored for more than five minutes in day.

To me, that is not acceptable, it is not what i want. But is what i want, really what i want? I have asked myself this question many times, and the answer is usually the same. But liking a certain type of male doesn’t necessarily mean that i would be open to making myself available for such types.

I have avoided dating because of past experiences, and yes, i am aware that not everyone is the same. But for the most part, meeting someone and being part of a”couple” just sounds so mundane and restrictive to me. And let me just briefly touch on the issue that, age is a factor. It factors in when you are older and that your standards come in to play now. It is no longer an easy task to walk into a pub or nightclub with friends, flirt with someone and confidently leave with their contacts details. The thought of even trying this concept, is enough to make me bury my head in the entire works of the Bronte family novels and only come out for a caffeine fix.

Is 30+ too old to look for potential relationships?  For me, i only question my decision  after watching a romance movie that has been successful enough to leave me pondering my choice, after reading a new book that has left me feel void of everything within its pages that normal people want on a daily basis. It usually only lasts for a few days then i quickly return to being the happy singleton who has a great family unit around me and some great close friends as well as perusing my passion for writing that i enjoy.

So, to round-up, i enjoy being single. I enjoy only having to concentrate on my children and myself. Has my past experiences forever tainted the way i think of men and relationships? Possibly, but will it prevent me from being the best version of me i can be, hell no! Life goes on whether you are single or not. Will i have a future lapse in my choice? Probably, but only because script writers do the same job as writers do. They create a place of fantasy that sells it to us all.

 

Standard
Books, Fiction, Life, love, Plans, relationships

Real life Bridget Jones

What started off as a rare lapse in time where I am released of my bonds to indulge in some adult company with my cousin, where we enjoyed good food courtesy of Frankie and Benny’s, followed by the much sought-after Bridget Jones’s Baby; ended in the rudely, abrupt and frank realization that I am possibly a real life Bridget Jones!

While this may not have come as a surprise to my cousin; whom did her best not to all but crown me queen of the spinsters,  it did however come as a shock to my self-appointed “queen-of-independence-and-needs-no-man-to-be-happy” ego.

For the better part of over 12 years, I have worn the crown of independent single mother of two with great self-pride. I mentally blessed the freedom I have when I witness a quarreling couple out doing shopping. I regarded my situation to be uniquely satisfying, that I could do as I please without having to consider the needs of a man ( with the exception of my two sons ).

But of an age where I am now on the meaner side of the 30+ years, I seem to be an almost mirror image of the Bridget Jones character, with slight over-exaggeration.

The aptly named song “All by my self” could very well be my own theme tune, forever to play as my constant background music in my life story. Although to give Bridget Jones credit, she did have the affections of two handsome men vying for her attention. I have that too, but on a less romantic scale and more along a nurturing scale!

I have shared her loathe of colleagues and embarrassing moments that will haunt our sub-conscience minds for eternity. I’ve shared her pity parties for one, during annual holiday celebrations where everyone around the world is enjoying the festivities except me. I have sat writing nonsense in diary after diary that has never had any form of consistency, yet could make for a best-selling read. Those times are the lonely ones, but only our half-assed attempt at a diary; will ever know the truth within. Myself and Bridget put on a bravado of couldn’t-fucking-care-less attitude that serves as our force-field and emotional stabilizer. But within those few and far between penned pages lie words that have never been spoken and wishes that will never see the light of day!  For deep within, (way deep within) grained in years of ink, blood, sweat and tears, lies the script of how it is to be a real life Bridget Jones. We are many,  we are all around and we could be surrounded by a 100 friends, but still feel that pang of loneliness at times. But then we begin pondering on whether or not we want to find that missing someone,  or if being the oldest spinster in town is actually a delicacy.

I have friends that will tell you that they think I should settle down, and  have repeatedly tried to convince me to date, but to no avail. The stubborn, independent  voice in my head quickly reminds me that past relationships have been disastrous and have failed to even conjure up a wisp of feelings for the other parties involved. Obviously in the actual Bridget Jones movies, she is reliant on the affections of men and constantly seeks their approval. She seeks commitment and love, but has a long-standing date with denial when it comes to aspects of the heart. I am as far from this is as i can possibly get, but i can’t help sympathize with her cause.

Yes I am single and i came about this part in my life through making the choice to be single, but there are aspects of social appearance and perception that suggests that it is still almost alien to be this way.

I would like to go on record and state that i do hold partial blame on the writers of the world, whether they be script writers or novelists, they lure us into a world of fantasy and romance leaving us wanting to be a part of the book or movie.

I have fallen trap to my own writings too. My own book, Misty Hollow – Shadow Walker Series includes a character that many would class as the mythical “book boyfriend”! The Lord of Vampires, Nikolai is the tall, dark-haired, all-powerful vampire that has women falling at his feet begging for even a second look. I gave the character the ability to be wanted by readers. I wrote my book based on my own dreams and imagination. I gave characters life based on what i wanted and what i thought others would want. Writing gave me an escape from reality and allowed me to be part of a world full of endless possibilities.

With more and more people turning to fiction, i created a place for them to escape too. A place full of people that they could see themselves in and people that they would lust after. That is the good thing about books, they open up worlds galore and introduce us to the key to other people’s imaginations.

But it’s within the pages of John Keats and Charlotte Bronte books, we find ourselves lusting after men that just don’t exist in real life. And that’s partly why we read, so we can read about powerful men in suits that woo us with gifts and all they want in return is the pleasure of our bodies. I mean, who doesn’t find that appealing? But reality doesn’t offer brooding vampires with supernatural abilities that make it hard for us to resist their prowess. Christian Grey is not going to offer us a steamy weekend away and John Wick is not going to avenge us at the same time as taking out an entire mafia all because he hurt our dog. No, in reality we don’t get that, but that is what i want. That is why i chose to remain single.

I have never come across anyone in life that could pass as a potential “book boyfriend” or even close to it. In real life, i have only come across over enthusiastic males that think declaring their undying affections after two minutes is what i want to hear. Or men that need constant attention and hate to be ignored for more than five minutes in day.

To me, that is not acceptable, it is not what i want. But is what i want, really what i want? I have asked myself this question many times, and the answer is usually the same. But liking a certain type of male doesn’t necessarily mean that i would be open to making myself available for such types.

I have avoided dating because of past experiences, and yes, i am aware that not everyone is the same. But for the most part, meeting someone and being part of a”couple” just sounds so mundane and restrictive to me. And let me just briefly touch on the issue that, age is a factor. It factors in when you are older and that your standards come in to play now. It is no longer an easy task to walk into a pub or nightclub with friends, flirt with someone and confidently leave with their contacts details. The thought of even trying this concept, is enough to make me bury my head in the entire works of the Bronte family novels and only come out for a caffeine fix.

Is 30+ too old to look for potential relationships?  For me, i only question my decision  after watching a romance movie that has been successful enough to leave me pondering my choice, after reading a new book that has left me feel void of everything within its pages that normal people want on a daily basis. It usually only lasts for a few days then i quickly return to being the happy singleton who has a great family unit around me and some great close friends as well as perusing my passion for writing that i enjoy.

So, to round-up, i enjoy being single. I enjoy only having to concentrate on my children and myself. Has my past experiences forever tainted the way i think of men and relationships? Possibly, but will it prevent me from being the best version of me i can be, hell no! Life goes on whether you are single or not. Will i have a future lapse in my choice? Probably, but only because script writers do the same job as writers do. They create a place of fantasy that sells it to us all.

 

Standard
Books, Fiction, Writing

An excerpt from “Misty Hollow” – The Shadow Walker Series

There is something to be envied for those that do not dream. To sleep in blissful ignorance every night and wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not for me. Every night I relive the same dream over and over again. The same scene, the same effects and the same ending that leaves me frustrated. And tonight is no different.

 

A coveted sky like a black, satin sheet sprinkled with thousands of tiny, delicate sparkling diamonds dazzle above me. The cool, fine, golden sand beneath my feet feels very familiar. This domain is no stranger to me, I’ve been stuck in this groundhog dream for the past three years.

The glowing moon offers the only form of light. After my first few visits here, I realised that I was never going to get the bright, hypnotic sphere in my hands, but it still doesn’t stop me from trying to reach out.

Walking forwards, I take in the familiar scenery. To my left, the waves from the sea repeat an exact timed performance dancing teasingly towards my feet, never once touching my skin. The silence was slightly disconcerting. Not a solitary sound to penetrate the night.

 

My long, white dress clings to me like a second skin, there is no wind not even a mischievous breeze yet my dress flutters making my skin feel as though it’s being caressed by thousands of delicate butterfly wings. It almost appears luminous in the moonlight. This is the one part of this strange illusion I wouldn’t change, I liked the dress. Its thin elegant straps and plain design are perfect as far as a dress can be. I glance behind me to see the dress dance along the golden, sugar sand and as always there is no trace of my footprints, not even a slight indentation where I’ve stepped. The sand is perfectly undisturbed, I can only assume that it’s part of the illusion and not due to the self-misconception of believing that I am so light on my feet that I leave no imprint in the sand. Despite my endless return trips here, I always find myself doing the same things I usually do.

 

Picturesque and tranquil surroundings are somewhat utopic. The sand dunes protrude, protectively high to my right. Up ahead I see the lighthouse standing proud, high up on the cliff edge, that’s when I realise that I’m not alone. Up ahead, directly below the lighthouse at the base of the cliff is a figure. Between the moonlight and the crepuscular shadows from the cliff it gives the impression that it is moving but never closing in.

 

My eyes try desperately to focus on it. Step after step, my own legs betraying me taking me closer towards the dark presence. My mind is fighting a losing battle with my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest threatening to break out with each beat. I can’t be more than fifty feet away when my focus starts to become more comprehensible. It glides towards me in a hypnotic pace. Both of us stop at exactly the same time almost as though we were linked. The figure is wearing a dark hooded cloak that moves as if it is liquid velvet. The hood is shadowing the face beneath so I can’t see who or what it is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was hovering above the sand. So many emotions flit through my mind, curiosity, confusion, anxiety, worry, all at once. Suddenly the waves stop, coming to a complete standstill mid wave. The beacon for the lighthouse comes to a stop pointing out to sea.

 

The cloaked figure makes no attempt to close the last thread of distance between us. My heart is beating so hard that my whole body feels as though it’s vibrating. I try to take a step forward but my legs feel heavy, my arms hang down my sides unable to move. My eyes are locked onto the figure in front of me. My whole body refuses to do what my mind is telling it. Something appears behind the figure. I didn’t notice it before until now as it looms threateningly over the smaller one. The new figure is cloaked too, dark and ragged. Two pale, skeletal hands emerge at either side of the smaller cloaked hood from behind. Thin, boned fingers wrap around the edges of the cloaks hood slowly beginning to draw the liquid material back. Just then, I hear I deep, cavernous growl…

 

Eyes wide open I regain my breathing to a more normal pace. I hate the term “normal”; I’ve never believed that anything in this world is normal, far from it to be honest. For the past three years I have had the same recurring dream, as always just as the hood of the cloak is about to be pulled back I wake up! It is really frustrating. Nothing changes, exactly the same thing over and over again. The first few times I started having them I thought I was losing my marbles. In fact, so did Molly, my best friend when I told her. She even offered to perform a lobotomy, just in case. You can always count on your best friend to be there for you, and offer back-street surgeries that hadn’t been around since the turn of the century. So I decided to take the less extreme route and check out one of the dream books from my book/witchcraft store that me, my mum and my gran own. Not that it helped at all. I got so confused when trying to figure out what it all meant that it usually resulted in a killer migraine.

There is something to be envied for those that do not dream. To sleep in blissful ignorance every night and wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not for me. Every night I relive the same dream over and over again. The same scene, the same effects and the same ending that leaves me frustrated. And tonight is no different.

 

A coveted sky like a black, satin sheet sprinkled with thousands of tiny, delicate sparkling diamonds dazzle above me. The cool, fine, golden sand beneath my feet feels very familiar. This domain is no stranger to me, I’ve been stuck in this groundhog dream for the past three years.

The glowing moon offers the only form of light. After my first few visits here, I realised that I was never going to get the bright, hypnotic sphere in my hands, but it still doesn’t stop me from trying to reach out.

Walking forwards, I take in the familiar scenery. To my left, the waves from the sea repeat an exact timed performance dancing teasingly towards my feet, never once touching my skin. The silence was slightly disconcerting. Not a solitary sound to penetrate the night.

 

My long, white dress clings to me like a second skin, there is no wind not even a mischievous breeze yet my dress flutters making my skin feel as though it’s being caressed by thousands of delicate butterfly wings. It almost appears luminous in the moonlight. This is the one part of this strange illusion I wouldn’t change, I liked the dress. Its thin elegant straps and plain design are perfect as far as a dress can be. I glance behind me to see the dress dance along the golden, sugar sand and as always there is no trace of my footprints, not even a slight indentation where I’ve stepped. The sand is perfectly undisturbed, I can only assume that it’s part of the illusion and not due to the self-misconception of believing that I am so light on my feet that I leave no imprint in the sand. Despite my endless return trips here, I always find myself doing the same things I usually do.

 

Picturesque and tranquil surroundings are somewhat utopic. The sand dunes protrude, protectively high to my right. Up ahead I see the lighthouse standing proud, high up on the cliff edge, that’s when I realise that I’m not alone. Up ahead, directly below the lighthouse at the base of the cliff is a figure. Between the moonlight and the crepuscular shadows from the cliff it gives the impression that it is moving but never closing in.

 

My eyes try desperately to focus on it. Step after step, my own legs betraying me taking me closer towards the dark presence. My mind is fighting a losing battle with my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest threatening to break out with each beat. I can’t be more than fifty feet away when my focus starts to become more comprehensible. It glides towards me in a hypnotic pace. Both of us stop at exactly the same time almost as though we were linked. The figure is wearing a dark hooded cloak that moves as if it is liquid velvet. The hood is shadowing the face beneath so I can’t see who or what it is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was hovering above the sand. So many emotions flit through my mind, curiosity, confusion, anxiety, worry, all at once. Suddenly the waves stop, coming to a complete standstill mid wave. The beacon for the lighthouse comes to a stop pointing out to sea.

 

The cloaked figure makes no attempt to close the last thread of distance between us. My heart is beating so hard that my whole body feels as though it’s vibrating. I try to take a step forward but my legs feel heavy, my arms hang down my sides unable to move. My eyes are locked onto the figure in front of me. My whole body refuses to do what my mind is telling it. Something appears behind the figure. I didn’t notice it before until now as it looms threateningly over the smaller one. The new figure is cloaked too, dark and ragged. Two pale, skeletal hands emerge at either side of the smaller cloaked hood from behind. Thin, boned fingers wrap around the edges of the cloaks hood slowly beginning to draw the liquid material back. Just then, I hear I deep, cavernous growl…

 

Eyes wide open I regain my breathing to a more normal pace. I hate the term “normal”; I’ve never believed that anything in this world is normal, far from it to be honest. For the past three years I have had the same recurring dream, as always just as the hood of the cloak is about to be pulled back I wake up! It is really frustrating. Nothing changes, exactly the same thing over and over again. The first few times I started having them I thought I was losing my marbles. In fact, so did Molly, my best friend when I told her. She even offered to perform a lobotomy, just in case. You can always count on your best friend to be there for you, and offer back-street surgeries that hadn’t been around since the turn of the century. So I decided to take the less extreme route and check out one of the dream books from my book/witchcraft store that me, my mum and my gran own. Not that it helped at all. I got so confused when trying to figure out what it all meant that it usually resulted in a killer migraine.

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