This story by CarolL was first published on Square Pegs (squarepegs.overspillers.net) public fiction section.

Dawn comes very slowly. It isn’t the sudden popping up of the sun and an instant transformation from night into day; maybe in the tropics somewhere, but not here, not in England on the Grand Union Canal.

I had woken very early and crept out of bed, not wishing to disturb Mike. I pulled a jumper over my head and went through to the galley area and quietly made a brew, peering through the cracks in the little ill-fitting curtains while the kettle boiled at the very faint streaks of light slowly appearing. With hands round the mug for warmth against a chill that often pervades so early in the day, even in the sort of heavenly week we were enjoying, I sat on one of the seats in the little area at the back of our narrow boat and absorbed the magic of pre-dawn.

It was very silent, or so I thought at first, but I quickly became aware of gentle lappings on the side of the boat and the odd mysterious plop. Time stood still and I found myself breathing slowly, relaxing into the nothingness until, like the Piper at the gates of dawn, the first bird sent its message to all the others and the dawn chorus began. Unless you have been in a silent isolated place and experienced what I was listening to, it is hard to imagine how joyously loud and life-affirming such a simple thing as waking birdlife can be. Enchanted, I listened, saddened only by the fact I realised how few birdsongs I could identify.

The wisps of light were expanding, fingering through the navy clouds that were, themselves, showing just the faintest change of colour at their base, a rosiness announcing the sun was waking too. Yet this as yet invisible sun was sending warmth ahead of its light and the air around me thickened into opacity, cool air being greeted by the coming day. Droplets of moisture clung to me, hung in the air all around me until a slight stirring of the air sent them in gently moving drifts across the surface of the canal to swirl like smoke from a bonfire through the trees alongside.

My world too hung in suspension, the last grip of night challenged by the increasing lightening of the skies and the stirrings all around, poised ready to face the day. A duck had swum unseen alongside our boat and greeted its mate so loudly, I jumped and spilt thankfully cooled tea down myself. Its mate quacked back with vigour and gave chase. I smiled as they sped across the bow of the boat, seemingly walking on water like latter-day saints. I love ducks; they always amused me, having apparently caught God in a happy carefree mood during the Creation, for what other explanation could there be for such amusing creatures?

Almost at once, I became aware of many other species, night-time hunters scurrying into holes in the banks or through the undergrowth for the safety of their homes before day fully broke; others emerging, hungry, looking for their first meal of the day. A fox slunk from under the hump back bridge near which we had moored for the night and disappeared immediately and, shortly after, a family of rabbits felt emboldened to emerge to nibble on the towpath. The light was stronger, though still no sun, and I could make out the cowslips I had admired the night before, a rare enough sight these days, proud yellow bugles clustered on tall stems while gentler, paler sister primroses clung to the safety of the ground close by.

Then suddenly, yes suddenly, there really was a single moment when it changed after all, the mist was there one minute and in the next had gone just as a first ray of sunlight pierced the bridge’s gloom and shone straight into my face in greeting for one brief unforgettable moment. No summer solstice at Stonehenge could eclipse my wonder at having been in the right place at the right time. In a flash, it had gone, as if an illusion, and the sun rose above the bridge and flooded my world. Content, way more than content, I stood and stretched and looked forward to another day just messing about on the water

This story by CarolL was first published in the Square Pegs (squarepegs.overspillers.net) public fiction section

He feared it was a mistake, but could not help himself. Quietly driven from within, he slowly slid his hand under the bed, pleating the grey felt of dust that then snowed tiny motes into the shard of sunlight reflecting from the oak floor. His fingers stumbled on the box he knew was there, that he steadfastly tried to ignore but to which he intermittently fell victim.

He exhaled, tripping gently the motes as they had prepared to settle again, then gripped the roughness of the wood and slowly started to withdraw it, wondering if he might, even yet, find the strength to push it back out of sight. This box held his heart. This box would give him untold pain but untold joy. This box was all he had left.

Briefly, he relaxed his arm; his last chance to avoid the soul-splitting dichotomy of the golden burst of exquisite joy and the suffocating blackness of utter joylessness. He sensed it through his fingertips, urgently straining to be released, these emotions laid momentarily to rest but ever-present in their desire to be savoured again and wreak their havoc on him. The painfulness of the anticipated joy was overwhelming; the pleasure of the inevitable pain a salve that exonerated him from all blame.

It slid from under the bed as if under its own propulsion and not through his desire. He had no control over it once it was in motion, inexorable in its inevitability. His heart was here, beating its echo to the heart within his chest, finding its expression in everlasting regularity. Did he push it back, momentarily, or was that his imagination wishing he had the strength? No, of course not; there was no going back now, and he let his hands press tightly on the sides and lift it into the light, settle amongst the softness of the goose down duvet and sit silently daring him to lift the dull grey clasp.

The burst of scent was all too familiar as he raised the lid, the broken glass of the dark green perfume bottle redolent still with the enigmatic smell of her. He bent forward, slowly and deliberately and inhaled the essence of his love. Painful joy shot through him, lungs filled with remembered passion and muscles tensed to hold her still. His eyes were closed but saw with clarity undiminished by loss. Frozen in time for ever his consuming desire, but his breath escaped once more, his eyes opened and his lungs emptied their delight back into the box. The pattern of the days, the weeks and the months were deeply ingrained and with no need of thought his fingers stroked the glass, deliberately running his fingertip along the sharp edge to leak crimson beads along the thinnest of lines on his skin, then gently laid it alongside the box on its crimson cloth dotted with the desiccated spots from previous bleedings.

The crackling cache of letters, tied with a crimson silk ribbon and speckled with undefined agonies, teardrops and fear, blood stains and ecstasy, called feather-light to him. Pages crumpled by time and repeated reading spilled their story, as if he needed telling, but read them he did, every word familiar but new in its effect on his emotions; her love for him and his for her pumping into the chambers of his already bursting heart. He wept, as he knew he would, as he needed to, the driving force that brought him to this place that was the only stimulus for his release.

Years later, years that might in fact have been but minutes, he kissed the memories and thus added to the traces of his own humanity on the surface of each missive. Retied, they found their familiar home back in the box, the perfume bottle nestling across them once more. As always, he paused, reluctant to close the box and return to the reality of his life without her. He knelt by the bed and bent his head briefly to touch the box in salutation, golden hair spread momentarily across the darkened grain, and then slowly pushed it back out of his sight.

Later that evening, still drained but strangely calm, he opened his address book at the page where she had lived since first they met and stayed inscribed forever. Next to her was the entry for her parents and he dialled the number that, in truth, he knew without the need of prompting, but he needed to feel his finger tracing the numbers she had written in her neat italic script.

“Hello, it’s me” was all he had to say before the love and warmth and comfort he craved enveloped him across the miles.

This story was first published on the public fiction section of Square Pegs (squarepegs.overspillers.net) by Jiminy

Bill Hartman lay alone in a side ward at Bradford Infirmary. The sides of his bed had been raised to prevent a fall, and palliative treatment meant he suffered no pain. But he could see from the expression on the nurse’s face that he hadn’t much longer to live. Ah well he thought, my life has had its ups and downs but on the whole it hasn’t been too bad, so I suppose I should be grateful for seeing my sixtieth birthday. As Bill lay calmly in the last bed he would occupy on Earth memories came crowding back into his mind.

Although my parents were poor they contrived to keep me well fed and clothed. At primary school I was top of the class, but on moving to secondary school my pass marks became fewer until eventually I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. However, feeling that any job was better than no job at all I found a place as a gopher in a wholesale grocery warehouse: sweeping the floor, stacking crates of potatoes, anything that was needed. Sadly though, I was dismissed for dropping a crate of vinegar bottles and found myself queuing at the local job-centre

After this set-back I decided to pull myself together and make a new start in my life. So after some thought I decided I would like to become a TV repair man. So with this thought foremost in mind I applied for a skillcentre course. Then, after a successful interview, I joined my fellow students at Leeds skillcentre. And although I knew the course would be demanding I resolved to do my utmost to succeed. My fellow-students came from many walks of life, including a failed undergraduate and a Ugandan shop-keeper. But most importantly, our tutor’s excellent teaching methods ensured that most of his students would be successful

Following a high pass-rate it was time for an interview with the careers official who told me that although there were no TV technician posts available he could recommend a career as a TV and radio components salesman which would involve some technical expertise. So, feeling my future was secure I duly arrived at Hi-Tek Components Limited, and after a brief interview I was given a position as technical representative for Yorkshire and Lancashire

It was at a wedding party that I first met Pandora. Her brother had married into a moneyed family and the wine was flowing freely. While dancing a slow foxtrot I felt her bosom pressing close and sensed her vibrant sexuality. After this meeting we soon found ourselves a snug little apartment in Rawdon where we held wild parties with Pandora’s university friends. But after a while the glamour began to fade and I felt I was dreaming the impossible dream. There was no rancour when we parted, just a feeling of je ne sais quoi

My job took me to many places, including the Metropole Hotel in Leeds where I met Tony Marchment in the saloon bar. He had recently arrived from overseas where he made a living doing whatever came his way. But after a while it became obvious that he was a Jack the lad who seized any opportunity to make a living by fair means or foul. So when he offered to make me his accomplice of course I refused. However, when business became slack due to fierce competition from a well-established company I agreed to join him in his dodgy enterprises.

Tony specialised in what he called distraction techniques. In other words I would engage the shopkeeper in conversation while he made off with the goods. This might be a TV, radio or whatever could be sold on the underground market. This worked well for a while until one day we messed up, leaving me to face the music while Tony did a runner. I was hauled before the magistrate who committed me to Leeds Assizes where the judge sent me down for a three year stretch in Armley jail. But eventually when my sentence was commuted to two years for good behaviour I breathed a sigh of relief and resolved to make a new start in life. There’s not much more to tell except to say that I gave up all thoughts of marriage and having kids, but I suppose I’m happy in my own way.

Bill groaned as the nurse came to change his bedpan. His life hadn’t been much to shout about but at least he’d had his dignity. Then later, during the night, he had a strange feeling of floating in the air, then gradually he lost all sense of being as his life ended peacefully. Almost immediately there came a sensation of being enclosed in a dark damp place. Then suddenly there came a feeling of passing through a narrow tunnel into a blaze of light. It was the beginning of a whole new life with all its possibilities for joy or sorrow. Eileen smiled contentedly as her new baby snuggled close to her breast.