Certificate 18

I met this guy the other day, said he was God, although he didn't look much like his pictures in the Children's Illustrated Bible.

The gift of words

Not very much happened on the journey from Olney to Milton Keynes and then the M1.

The sway of the train woke me. I shut my eyes, just for a second I thought and time jumped forwards, or was it sideways, as it does when you are sleeping, a kind of time travel.

It was twenty minutes later than planned that the mini-bus drew away from the centre; packed with excitement, dreams and anticipation.

‘Okay,’ Nick said. ‘We’re live, you ready?’

‘Wait, is this going to be loud?’

Nick frowned. ‘Have you never been to a firework display before?’

My obligation to break the mold of my past is at odds with the obsessions and the compulsions that have once taken over.

A low rumble pierced the silence. My eyes sprang open. Tara’s head rested on my shoulder, breathing slowly. I blinked multiple times and feared how long we had been asleep.

An ugly noise turns up in my dreams, and then I'm awake and slapping off my alarm. Seven o' clock. When I look at it again it's almost half past. Must have dozed off for a bit.

"That bag weighs a ton, what on earth have you got in it?"

"Knives."

Tom had dreams of his own but couldn't explain his dreams to anyone. He did know that he wanted to be free and to run with the penguins; or even have one of his own.

Many days had been and gone since Tom had entered the world. Sun and raindrops falling into the earth or running collectively, an army on a march.

She applied a little more pressure and dragged the thin piece of glass down toward the back of the knee where the skin would be thinnest...

the nazi
symbol stood
for sun, life, and
good luck.

They parked in a lot downtown near the train station. It stood on the border between the business district and the black north side of Kalamazoo. They crossed the street and entered the depot.

After so long, I could feel the heat of his body against mine.

Picture a landscape of greyish brown, barren but fantastic. The foliage is sparse and richly hued, a rust of giant flakes like lichen.

Dad; your still very special to me;
In the wind and the sun and the rain
as the years fold away into one
you continue to be my someone.

I was eight when I stole that jelly-baby

A very rude poem with a sad undercurrent.

There was no play-school for children as special as Tom in her days. No specialist she knew about who could help her, make suggestions, as to how her 24 hour situation could be handled. No D.L.A.