Terror Threat Level Reduced
290 words
I nervously board the tube train; I am on edge as it’s only been two days since the London tube bombings.
As the train leaves the station I take a moment to look at my fellow passengers; I see that they are also uneasy, their eyes dart around the carriage like birds alert for predators.
The train pulls into the next station, the doors slide open and a large man boards our carriage, he is carrying a bulky cardboard box.
The box is cream in colour, it lacks logo or decoration, it’s roughly 6 inches deep and two-foot square. He holds the box with both hands, his manner suggests that the box contains something of value or fragility.
He sits in the empty seat next to me, the box balanced on his lap, the train moves slowly out of the station.
Within seconds the man begins to fiddle with the edge of the box; he looks a little uneasy, apprehensive.
The collective level of anxiety appears to go up a notch, some passengers start to look physically uncomfortable, ‘the eye darting’ becomes more rapid, more obvious.
I find that my eyes are drawn to the large white box on the man’s lap, I watch his fingers start to work away at the small piece of tape that holds the lid in place.
He finally opens the lid of his box, it reveals a tray of fresh cream cakes.
He turns towards me, smiles and asks if I would like one, I accept. He then offers the other passengers a cake; a few join me in accepting his offer.
The tension immediately evaporates, the distrust fades away and perhaps, for a short while, belief in human kindness has been restored.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
Cwmystwyth, Winter 1985
447 words
It’s 1985, it’s winter, I am 21 years old and living in a small cottage that I share with my brother and two friends. The cottage is nestled within the beautiful hamlet of Cwmystwyth, West Wales.
We have been living in this remote part of the world for just over a year, we are known locally (for obvious spiky-hair related reasons) as the Punks from Cwmystwyth. We stand out like sore thumbs, the locals are friendly, often stare but always say hello, I guess they think of us as misplaced oddities.
We are approximately seventeen miles away from the nearest town of Aberystwyth there is nothing but mountains, valleys and beautiful Welsh countryside for as far as the eye can see.
It’s about 8pm; it has started to snow, not just a light dusting, we are talking heavy snow… real Welsh snow. The cottage is warm we have a roaring fire and plenty of dry logs to keep us going well into the wee hours. We spend the evening cooking, chatting and observing the increasing blizzard-like conditions.
At around 2am we notice that the snow has stopped, the moon is full and the thick blanket of reflecting snow creates an illusion of daylight. We decide to take a walk along the small road that runs the length of the Rhayader valley.
After donning our army power-trooper boots (standard kit for young punk rockers of the time), heavy jackets and scarves we make our way out into our new fairytale world.
The recently fallen snow is deep, at least 6 inches; some of the snow has drifted along the high banks of the road. The night is very quiet, the only sound is the crunch, crunch, crunch of compressed snow underfoot. We march along the snow-covered road occasionally talking, sometimes laughing; our voices seem to have an unusual resonance and quality.
After a short time the road narrows and we find ourselves standing in the mouth of the valley. Its an incredible sight, everything seems pin sharp, normally it would be pitch black and not safe to walk without a torch, but tonight the world seems bright and vibrant.
We stand in silence for a while near the ruins of the old lead mines and listen to the sound of the River Ystwyth that runs alongside the road.
Eventually the cold gets too much for us and we decide to follow our own footprints in the snow back to the warmth of our cottage.
As we make our way back along the snow-covered road I can’t help but think … we have just shared a set of wonderful moments, a unique collective experience unlikely to be ever repeated again in our lifetimes.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
Bare floorboards
169 words
I sometimes have a dream, a recurring dream I suppose…
In the dream, I am walking through the house that I lived in when I was a child. The house often appears very bright with white painted walls and bare floorboards. The house echoes, there is a sense of emptiness.
There is a point in the dream when I try to look through the window in the front room; I want to look out into the street, however, I am unable to peer through the window as it is always placed too high in the wall. The only way that I will be able to look out of the window is to find a chair, but there are no chairs, no furniture… the house is empty.
It has taken me a while to work out what is happening, but I think I now understand.
In the dream I am not an adult, I am a child, I cannot see out the window because I am a small 10-year-old boy.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg