Letters to a Friend… #Fiction #WIP

Letters to a Friend

My Dearest Anne

I wish you were here; America seems so far away. I am writing today as I feel I am losing my mind. Of late, I am hearing two voices clearly, in my mind. Florence and Albert Wilson, they say. Florence insists on being called Flo.

They tell me they are my parents. They tell me my soul belongs to the five-year-old son they lost. They have mentioned so many things that I know, such as the birthmark I have behind my right ear that their son also had.

Certain habits make me wonder, am I hearing them, or is it my imagination? I cannot be sure. One afternoon, I imagined them sitting in a small parlour tuning into an old radio, looking for their lost son. They tell me that is precisely how it is. The frequencies they can tune into, and somehow, they managed to find me.

If I am to believe such a thing, does that mean there are no new souls? That we are all second-hand, recycled human beings?

It made me wonder, could that be why I was such a tomboy? Why my mother had a hard time getting me to wear dresses? How I have always liked to beat the boys at any game? Especially climbing trees and collecting conkers.

Should I have been born a boy?

I must say, I never felt like a boy. I like being a woman and mother of two boys. My husband, Richard, tells me I am overworked. He doesn’t understand, although I am busy with my new commission. The author sought me out herself, as she loved the drawings I did for my last commission.

I do not believe that is the problem. They almost know what I think before I think it. Last night I had a strange thought. Could a person be born with two souls? That one soul being so much younger than the other? Could that be why I chose to be an illustrator for children’s books?

Maybe I have that wrong. If indeed I have two souls, I cannot know how old the other may be. I cannot help believing that Florence and Albert are real. They have told me so much about themselves. Where they were born, where they lived, so many places, until Albert’s father died, and he inherited three grocery shops. That, Flo, tells me, is when they settled down.

One thing that unnerves me a little is Flo tells me they lived in my house for three years.

My dearest friend, please don’t think me crazy. Please write back soon, as I know you will put my mind at ease.

                                  Your dearest friend

                                                     Alice

To be continued…

©AnitaDawes2022

Friday Flowers… #Busy, busy

Image by Chesna from Pixabay 

Today, I am doing a white rabbit impersonation, and already too busy. Just like this crazy flower…

It’s Friday, which means a family visitation, weekly shopping delivery, the final chapter to finish, and the need to find out why one of my lesser characters seems to have disappeared into the mist…

I wanted to make some promo posters for Ghost of a Chance too, but that title says it all today…

Of course, I won’t manage all of this, but I’m gonna give it my best shot!

A Weird Week…

Impossible, that’s Anita’s poem today, and that word sums up the week we have just had.

We are used to crazy and can tolerate a little madness (in short doses), but we haven’t seen weird around here for quite a while. We are exhausted, both mentally and physically, so will need a quiet weekend to process everything. (in other words, shove everything back into the right boxes!)

Wishing everyone a lovely peaceful weekend too, and we will be back on Monday!

Does anyone fancy a paddle?

Don’t Call me Crazy… #Poetry

Image by naturepic from Pixabay
When I tell you the great redwood
Is white as snow, a ghost
Don’t call me crazy
When lightning strikes the ground
And angels wings can be found
Don’t call me crazy
When I tell you I see 
Merlin’s face in the cloud
Don’t call me crazy
Arthur stands with sword in hand
Where lightning is found
Don’t call me crazy
When the Lady of the Lake
Calls the light of the world 
to her hand
don’t call me crazy
she had in mind a world renewed
old magic recalled
don’t call me crazy
find an angels ring, wear it well
your life now stands beside the tree
reborn, your thoughts with me
don’t call me crazy
I wear the ring by lightning made
I walk with angels when day is done
Don’t call me crazy
Like the tree, they live inside out
The ring I found
Keeps me from going crazy…

©AnitaDawes2022

BlogBattle ~ Revolution

February #BlogBattle: Revolution

February 2021 Blog Battle

The word this month is:

Revolution

My dad had a lot of crazy ideas, this one was the best crazy yet.
Mum said it would be in the yard by
the end of the week with the rest of his junk.
The hugest telescope I had ever seen.
Dad and I put it together, learned how to focus it.
That night from the spare bedroom, my heart jumped from star to star.
fourteen years old and I know what I want to do with my life.
I told dad I wanted to work at the Hubble Observatory.
That night I witnessed my first spiral galaxy.
I had fallen into one of mum’s bible stories.
Revelations came to mind; something began for me that night.
Mum was right, dad will be bored by the end of the week.
Some might say, dad had been marked by the beast 666.
a number that drives the crazy in him.
mum wouldn’t like to hear me say that,
she would be crossing herself half the day,
saying Jonathan, mind your tongue!
Before going to bed, I made sure dad knew I wanted the telescope.
He smiled; we didn’t need too many words,
I knew the scope was mine…

© Anita Dawes 2021

Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge…

#TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 211, #Abhanga, or #PoetsChoice

WELCOME TO TANKA TUESDAY!

Anita Dawes Crazy Etheree

Stone monsters’ gargoyles smiles.
Night that never ends.
Slow morning light
Wrinkled sheets
Cold hands
Touch
Pale
Thinking
Brain cracking
Storm clouds calling
Rainfall flood warning
Small dark gargoyle smiling
War in heaven raging
Stone monsters waiting
Armour plated
army waits.
Biting
Souls
Black
Magic
makes its stand.
There to take all.
Heavens light has more
War raging until dawn…

© Anita Dawes 2021

Crazy… #Poetry

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Crazy

Do you suffer as I do?

With a melody in the back of your mind

With words you cannot find

Taking the 45 bus to Brixton

A middle-aged woman in the seat behind you

Humming the tune in your head

Do you ask her, only for her to say

She has no idea why it’s in her head

Days later you’re passing a building site

Where the tune is being whistled

by a burly bricklayer.

He too cannot answer your question

A child in the playground, skipping to your tune.

You end up standing in a record shop

Humming it for the assistant

He places an EP on the record player

It’s the tune from an advert,

no longer stuck in your head

The title of which was ‘Many Rivers to Cross.’

It almost drove me crazy

I wondered if we had all crossed the same river…

©anitadawes

 

#Crazy… Flights of Fancy…

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Crazy

A million stars shine underfoot

The grass ripples in the sky.

We do our washing in the mud

And all pigs must learn to fly.

Clouds crawl along the ground

Trees roots grab the air

Black sun freezes hard

Destruction lives on everywhere.

Our seasons are all backwards

We see no sounds at all.

Our thinking has gone haywire

There are no visions on the wall

We see no light in the darkness

We are confused and glad

We cry at flowers growing

We are both happy and sad…

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