Di's entry:
A glorious day we as gather at the seashore. We courtiers are in high spirits as
we watch the tables being laid for the feast. How we will fete our king as he proves
himself the greatest and most powerful being. Ever since I was a small boy I have
listened to the king’s triumphs, spoken aloud in the great hall. There is no other
man so grand, so worthy of our admiration.
I move away from the other courtiers to get a better view and see the royal
servants carry the great golden chair down the beach. Its canopy flutters in the
breeze as they place the chair by the water’s edge.
The king strides magnificently to the waiting servants, sits slowly and commands
the waves: ‘Cease your lapping! Oh tide, turn and leave the shore.’ I wait, expectant,
how exciting to watch the sea recede. But as the minutes pass a sickly feeling creeps
across my guts as the water continues to rise.
How cruel he is. On purpose he makes us see him so defeated. The man we want to
worship has become powerless and small. I watch as he removes his crown and walks up
the beach with his head hanging low. No one follows in his train as we normally do.
I turn to look at the banquet, a full spread and colourful with many good things. But
no one can eat - we are too heart sick.
Sally's entry:
There’s a kind of emptiness at the centre of my being. More than emptiness: a
void, a lack of what was there, so bright and promising, before. I had no warning
that the hammer was about to fall, about to smash the shimmering mirage into millions
of pricking, merciless shards of memory. The pity of it is that it all looks even
prettier now that it’s wrecked in pieces on the floor.
One little word is all it took: "No". You didn’t even add "sorry". I had conjured
a future for myself where you and I walked hand in hand, immune to the barbs of
misfortune, protected by love. My perfect bubble hung suspended above us while I
asked you to come with me: and you took your little word and stabbed it - so! - and
the glass-perfect image went pop, sadly, and without a sound.
Now that you’re gone, I’m left sitting here with what I had before. Except that
with that short, sharp stab you also took away my reason for going on, the thing -
whatever it was - that made my life tick along easily in its groove. What I am left
with is a broken-backed bird, a song without a tune, a breath without life.
Did you know that would happen? Did you know you would seem so much more beautiful,
graceful, blessed when you had gone? Was this a way of proving to me how much I have
lost?
I didn’t need telling, you know.
Catherine's entry:
Annie slumped in her chair. The wooden slats pressed cold into her back. The beat
of the bass drum thudded through her body. She could taste the salmon from dinner.
She’d never like fish. She wondered why she didn’t feel different.
The ceremony had been over so quickly, Annie didn’t know why they bothered. No
stars had exploded when she said, "I do." A baby was sick on the floor.
"Don’t sit like that, you’ll crease your dress," said Paul, approaching with a
pint. Annie took a handful of white cotton and scrunched it.
"Sorry, sorry," said Paul, "I didn’t- I’ll try- I’m sorry." He put his hand on
her knee. Annie stared at reddish freckles on chalk skin. Everyone said you didn’t
notice imperfections after marriage. She pulled her leg away.
Some of Paul’s relatives came to say, "Congratulations Mr and Mrs Kent, ha ha."
The words scraped in Annie’s head. She shredded petals in her bouquet with long
silver fingernails and watched them fall over her feet. One of her white sandals was
smeared with mud at the toe. It had been hailing when they arrived. Annie was rushed
in under a big umbrella. She wished she’d stayed outside. The hailstones would have
battered her face and soaked through her dress.
The DJ announced it was time for the happy couple to open the dance floor.
"Come on, Annie," said Paul when she didn’t move. He dragged her from the chair as
some weedy ballad started. Annie closed her eyes and thought of Dan from work. Then
opened them again when Paul trod on her foot.
Annie turned her face away. By the door a bridesmaid blew bubbles. They damply
reflected the dancers in green-blue then silently burst.
Chris's entry:
The letter from the publishers wilted to the table, and the sick feeling in
Frank¹s stomach spread to his heart. He¹d put his whole soul into that book
and now..
Through the window he saw his cat Whiskey, belly to the grass, tail
swishing, eyes narrowed. Frank felt a kinship with whatever tiny invisible
quivering fear hid in the undergrowth - paralysis, futility, impending doom.
Writing his other novels had made him happy; financing them with a small
gardening business, happier still. Rejection letters? - a philosophical
shrug, then a return to browsing seed catalogues. But this book had been
different, he had always known that, right from the very first idea.
(Whiskey crept forward a few inches, tail twitching)
Frank¹s head dropped onto his hands, and his whole body felt suddenly limp,
the energy sucked from him. He remembered the childhood day when his father
had said he couldn¹t go to see ³The Dambusters². The misdemeanour behind
this was long forgotten, but the same feeling of drained-out, wept-up dry
emptiness was with him again.
He would have to give up the gardening, and the thought brought tears to his
eyes. No more days in the breezes and the sunshine, the rain and the black
damp loam. His jacket sleeve felt wet beneath his cheek.
(Whiskey suddenly leapt in the air and came down on newly-vacated lawn. He
glared around, frustrated and baffled, the prey gone. Next second, he was
licking his hindquarters and capering off to chase a cartwheeling leaf.)
A phrase from the letter swam into Frank¹s tearful vision (³...a promotional
tour of the States this autumn...²) and he sighed deeply. The last thing
he¹d wanted was his life to change. Why, oh why, had the publishers decided
to accept THIS novel?
Clare's entry:
I look back at what I wrote a year ago, remembering how hope had blossomed,
petal by petal unfurling, as the babies grew strong and healthy, their chuckles
weaving gossamer threads of happiness between us all.
There were the odd times when a chilling word, or look, caused the petals to
close, protectively. But this week, I saw the flower perish, and fall, crushed
underfoot.
Collecting the twins, to take them out for the day, my heart had been full, as
their instant beams of recognition lit the room, just as the sunshine warmed the
morning.
"May I take them in the pool?" I asked.
"No!"
"Oh, o.k. whatever you wish."
"You do realise Mum, that if anything ever happened to the babies while in your
care, I would never forgive you."
My heart felt as if an iron hand had clutched it. Tears filled my eyes and I
gulped, hard, smiling at the babies as they glanced my way. But inside, I was
shrivelling up, aware that my dreams of happy families, held and balanced as
carefully as a saucer of milk for so long, had, in a few words, been tipped away.
Underneath the surface, nothing had changed, nothing at all.
I now understand that phrase "sick with disappointment". Each morning I awake,
with a sinking, nauseous feeling as I come to - remembering - aware that nothing is
as I had hoped it would be. Everything I do is affected - my concentration has gone
to pot, I stop in the middle of sentences, tears filling my eyes, remembering the
babies` faces when I last saw them. I know now, I may never see them again.
| 
