Street Talk – A Christmas Story

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The office of Street Talk Magazine sat on the edge of George Street Memorial Park in a small town in Northern England. The Park was named after George Street, founder of Street Talk Magazine. It was dedicated to him in 2001 after he and his wife were killed in a car crash. The drunk driver, who hit them head on escaped unhurt, so did Valerie, the Street’s ten-year old daughter.

George and Ethel Street had only one child and thankfully they’d left a very detailed will to make sure she was taken care of. All profits from the thriving magazine went into to a trust until she was old enough to make decisions. The Magazine was run by a trusted team of long time employees in the meantime and continued to be successful. After the tragedy, Valerie fell off the face of the earth. Local media were interested in her for a while, and tried to track her down, but they soon lost moved on to other stories.

*************

It was a cold December morning. Small particles of ice fell from clouds that looked so full they wanted to burst.
“Snows coming!”
“What, oh Morning Ian, I thought you were on vacation this week.”
“Should be, but our new CFO needed me here to go over some figures for last year.”
The two Street Talk employees hurried through the park, clouds of breath escaped their mouthes as the talked.
“Jesus its cold!” Gina said “Look, that homeless woman is under the bridge. Surely she’ll die out here.”
At the edge of the park, on the cold stone ground, sat the solitary figure of a woman. Her hood was pulled over her face. Neither Ian nor Gina knew what she looked like. They knew she was female because of her voice.
“I’m going to give her enough money to go and buy breakfast somewhere, she needs to get out of this cold.”
Gina took a ten pound note from her wallet. Crouching down she handed it to the pitiful figure. A grateful voice floated from the hood of the old coat she wore. “Thank you and God bless you”
“Here, take my coffee, I haven’t touched it” Ian said as he gave her his Starbucks.”
The woman looked up at them and for the first time they saw her face. It was grimy and tired looking, but it was young. They were both taken aback.
“Merry Christmas!” She said.
Neither of them spoke until they were out of earshot.
“She’s our age, ” Ian said. “I wonder what happened to her.”
A voice from behind interrupted them, loud and thoughtless
“You shouldn’t give money to street people, they’re likely to have all sorts of diseases. I’m going to call the Tim in Security and see about getting here removed. She has no right being here. It’s a disgrace. They should find a place to put people like her.”
It was Desiree, the new CFO. She bulldozed past them, her expensive high-heeled boots piercing the morning silence as they stabbed the ground.
“Bitch!” Gina whispered as the followed her into the building.
“Careful, she’ll hear you, she already fired her analyst for less.”

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The British Army – Dark Angel – The Fight

Desert Rats“Dad!” I whispered. I felt his presence, I felt his love.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, leave this child alone.” It was father Angelo.

Never, she’s almost mine, you lost your battle, your God is no match for me. 

Her voice weakened as she spoke, faded. Was she losing her hold on me? I was no longer in pain.

Tommy guns shattered the silence. I coughed and peered though a cloud of dust at the line of military vehicles that came to a halt in front of me. Soldiers spilled out, running to safety. They fired at something I couldn’t see.

“Trust in God, he’s the only one who can help you now.” Was it father Angelo? What was happening to me? Was I dying? Where was I?

A dark figure rose from the dusty mess. Black wings flapped angrily. Red eyes glowing fiercely. You don’t play fair, you bring in an army of dead men, men I can’t hurt. You may win this battle, but I WILL be back. The war isn’t over, not by a long way.

She hovered above the gunfire, her image fading, for what felt like an eternity. The forces fighting her were too strong. Her red eyes focused on the young soldiers, but she couldn’t harm them. These good men had already perished fighting for their country. Above the sound of the Tommy guns I heard prayers. Two different voices praying loudly and sincerely. I recognized one as Father Angelo, the other was my Uncle, the Army Padre.

“For the Love of God be gone.” I heard them say in Unison. “Go back to where you came from, leave this earth, leave it now.”

I watched the dark shape disintegrate and become part of the dust cloud. Red eyes disappeared. The sound of gun fire stopped and they soldiers cheered.

A single figure walked towards me, lighting a cigarette as he approached.

“Dad?”

“Yes pet, its me. Did she really think she could survive the British Army? She’s nothing compared to the evil man the Germans call their Führer.”

“Dad, hold me.” I begged, but I knew he couldn’t, his image faded, along with the young soldiers he fought with. Soon all that was left was a blue smoke ring from his favorite cigarettes, but I felt his smile.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my story about Lucy, and her fight with the Dark Angel. It’s almost done, one more instalment to go. My first novel Dead of July is available on Amazon. 

Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

Thank you!

As a change from the Ghost Stories I normally post, I’ve decided to tell you all how thankful I am.

What am I thankful for? My friends, my family and my life.

I’m thankful for my lovely home in Colorado, where I sit and look at the mountains as I write this blog.

I’m thankful that although it’s taken me 57 years to get here, I’m finally writing. My novels may never may me rich and famous, but they make me happy. I’m thankful to you all for reading them and leaving comments and reviews.

Have a lovely Thanksgiving everyone and remember to be Thankful.

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Thankful for my lovely home and the critters that come to visit.

 

Three Ghosts – Alice Hobson

As I got ready for bed, thoughts of my parents were heavy on my mind. How they’d loved me, cared for me and tried to understand me. Their life had been so much different from mine. Their challenges were food rations and surviving the second world war. I was born in the late fifties. When I hit my teens there were different challenges to face, all involving temptation. Free Love, drugs, rock festivals, sounds selfish doesn’t it? My parents survived the second world war and I survived the free love and drug epidemic.

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I’m sure my mum and dad never slept while I attended these events. A handful of my friends died from drug overdoses. Many jumped off bridges or from windows after taking LSD and imagining they could fly. Hey, I tried things, who didn’t, but luckily I don’t have an addictive personality. I could, quite easily say NO, and after a few experiments, I did.

I lay down in my bed, knowing I wasn’t going to sleep, so I picked up my iPad and began to read. I couldn’t concentrate. I was saw lights dancing and flickering on the wall outside my bedroom door. It looked like candle light. I was about to get out of bed and take a look when I heard a gentle voice. I closed my eyes and imagined the face of my Grandma. Wow, I hadn’t seen that face in over thirty years. I smiled, she was a character.

The Fell

“Remember when we walked across the fell from Butterknowle to Cockfield? We saw your granddad by beck, he died before you were born, but he still watches you. We both do.”

“Grandma, I’m in America now, how do you see me?”

“We’re always with you, and your mam. Don’t trouble yourself anymore about your past. It’s behind you and you survived. Your mam was no angel pet, and she knows it.”

“I can hear you.” It was my mum’s voice. I heard laughter too.

“Remember Gordon?” My grandma said.

“The boy I went to school with when we lived on the fell?” Laughter. “He was nasty, he used to torment me.”

“You soon fixed that Ethel. Shall I tell your daughter what you did?” More laughter. “Alright I will. Your mum grabbed a handful of his hair from the top of his head and spun him around like a top. Took most of the hair from the top of his head in the process.”

My mum joined in, “He squealed like a pig and ran all the way home. He never bothered me again though.”

“No, but I had his parents to deal with.”

I heard laughter from both my mum and my gran. It felt so good. Alice and Ethel together again. The came back to cheer me up.

The laughter faded and I knew they were gone. I wondered if they had come to take me with them. but I slept well that night with a smile on my face, and woke up the next morning ready to meet whatever life threw at me. I knew I was never alone, my family may have faded into the background, but they still watched over me. They’re probably behind me right now, reading this and laughing. I hope so!

 

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Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three Ghosts – Part One

My Mum1I arrived home from a GOD AWFUL day at work.”Why is it I’m never patted on the back for doing a good job?” I thought to myself. “One flipping mistake and I’m reprimanded in a room full of people. Dammit, why do I care so much?”

“You care because you’re made that way!”

I spun around. Was it my mother’s voice I heard? It really was a bad day if I heard voices. I changed into comfortable clothes, poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the porch. I needed to be outside where the air was fresh. It would cleanse the odour of failure. What an awful work day. No what an awful work year. “Why do I care?”  I asked myself again.

“Aren’t you listening to me? You care because you’re made that way. Remember how we used to sing, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and start all over again? You saw me do just that more times than I care to remember.”

“Mum?”

No answer!

I began to cry. Not big heaving sobs, but tears of sadness and exhaustion trickled down my face. Darkness settled around me, the birds silenced as the sounds of night took over. The chair next to me creaked a little, as though some one has shifted position. I dried my eyes and went inside to pour myself another glass of wine. The wind chimes played a soft tune with no help from the wind. As I approached the front door the porch light dimmed. One of the bulbs must have gone, I though to myself as I walked towards the soft glow.

The night was silent. You could have heard a pin drop. No birds, no crickets, not even the whisper of a breeze.

I sat down, knowing something was about to happen, and then she spoke.

“Talk to me, little girl, tell me what’s wrong”

“Mum?”

“I’m not her for long so talk to me. What can I do?” Yes, it was my mother’s voice. The glow that surrounded me wasn’t from electricity, it was her warm, healing aura.

“I’m lost mum, I don’t know where I’m going or where I’ve been. I’m just lost.”

“No, you’ve hit a bump in the road that’s all. Don’t let it get you down. Move on.”

“Move on to what? Move on to where? What do you mean.” I asked

“Move on to what makes you happy. Learn from your mistakes and don’t make them again. We had some rough times you and I, but we survived. You can get through this.”

The light was fading. “Mum, don’t go, stay a while longer.”

“I wish I could pet, but its time for me to leave.”

The porch light came back on, but the glow was harsh. I went back inside. She was right. Even if I’d just imagined my mum, her words were right. As I turned to lock the screen door a sweet smell wafted through. It was the smell of Sweet Peas, Lily of the Valley and vanilla, it was the smell of my mother.

 

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Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

 

One Last Christmas – A Whisper and a Sigh!

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Christmas Eve is alway special to me. I remember as a child being allowed to stay up late and watch for Santa as he sped across the sky. I alway saw him. “Mum, look, there he is,” I’d say. To which my Mum would reply. “Quick, get ready for bed. Santa only leaves Christmas presents for children who are asleep.

SantaAs fast as I could I would run up the stairs and get ready for bed. I’d peep from under the covers, but was ALWAYS asleep before Santa made his delivery.

Last Christmas eve I sat alone in front of the fire and thought about my mum. She’s been dead over ten years and I miss her. Everyone else was in bed and I was enjoying the peace and quiet, and one last glass of wine.

I whispered to my mother, hoping she was listening from above, “Mum, I miss you. I wish you were here for just one more Christmas. I remember how flustered you used to be as you prepared for Christmas day. You were so eager to make every year the best Christmas ever. Your mince pies were the best, your sage and onion stuffing was to die for and your tearful hug on Christmas morning always made everything right.”

I heard the sound of tinkling bells, where did it come from, I wondered. I looked out of the window and gasped as I saw a familiar image in the night sky far above. It couldn’t be Santa could it?

I heard a sigh from behind me, and turned to see who was there. I was no one, but smelled ‘Lily of the Valley’, my mothers favorite fragrance. Inhaling deeply I stepped forward and closed my eyes. Briefly I felt warm arms envelop me, just for a moment, and then they were gone.

I got my wish. My mother shared one last Christmas with me.

Merry Christmas everyone. Enjoy your family while you can. 

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TRAVEL TALES AND MISHAPS

To purchase my new novel from Amazon, click on the link below.

A German Ghost Story

 

The Anniversary

She sat at home and waited.

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The table was set with the best glasses, candles flickered setting the mood. Fifty years of marriage to the same man. Had there been regrets? Never! Had there been bad times. Of course, marriage wasn’t a rose garden. Sadie was sixty-nine years old, a year younger than her husband. They had been married for a life time and this was something to celebrate.

Mike had popped out to get another bottle of wine, that was almost an hour ago. It should have only take twenty minutes, where was he? Had he bumped into someone he knew and forgotten about this special night? She called his cell phone and heard it ringing across the room. He hadn’t taken it with him.

She blew out the candles and went to the window to watch for his car, just as she had done every year for the past five years, since he was killed in a car crash on their anniversary.

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The sun was setting like an orange fireball, sliding slowly into the ocean. She began to cry, something was wrong. Mike should be back by now. Had he been in an accident? Where was he? She shivered. Something was wrong. She was confused.

The door opened and Sadie signed with relief, turning round, ready to scold her husband for taking so long. It wasn’t Mike though, it was her son John. She dried her eyes and gave him a hug. “Oh John, I’m glad you are here, I am worried about your dad, I think he got lost, he only went for a bottle of wine, but he’s been gone for an hour”.

John hugged her tight, his eyes filling with tears. “Mum, what smells so good? Shall we eat? I brought a bottle of wine, look it’s your favorite.”

“But, we have to wait for……”

“Look at the beautiful sunset” John said as he opened the wine. “Let’s eat out on the deck”

“Oh what a good idea, I will put the food out. Your dad likes to sit on the deck. I made enough for three” Sadie said.

John walked out onto the deck while his mother busied herself in the kitchen. He called his sister “Jeannie, I just made it in time. Mum is a little worse this year, but I distracted her. She had cooked the usual anniversary dinner. We are going to eat it out on the deck while the sun sets.”

He could hear his sister crying “I miss dad too. It’s five years today, how could this have happened on their anniversary? How will she ever forget?”

“Got to go” John said and hung up as his mother served dinner.

“I cooked Mike’s favorite. I wish he was here” she said

“Me too, Mum”

Not sure where I got the idea for this story, it just came to me. Maybe as I thought about my mum and how much she missed my dad after he died. It made me cry a little. 

Check out my short story which is still available on Amazon and Smashwords from the links below. It is the first story I had the courage to share:

‘Dead of July’ my first novel will be released in a couple of months as and e-book and in print.

(Preview) Dead of July

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Mothers Past and Present

Mother Teresa

We all know this is mother Teresa, not my mother, but someone I would like to remember this mothers day, along with Princess Diana and of course Phoebe Ethel Newman – My Mother.

Princess Diana and Mother Teresa died within a week of each other in 1997, neither will be forgotten. Not so many people knew my mother passed, who passed away in April of 2002.

I miss her.

I didn’t think I would because she lived in England and I am here in the US. We only spoke on the phone every couple of months, and that was when I called her. She was in her eighties, getting forgetful, and would tell me the same thing over and over again. I wasn’t as understanding as I should have been, I wish I could go back in time and tell her things, but I can’t.

When I am alone, I sit and talk to her, and then laugh at myself because I would catch my mother alone in a room, seemingly talking to herself at times. I would ask her what she was doing and she would answer “Talking to Grandma”.

We all become our mothers eventually.

To everyone out there, whose mothers have passed away, spend a couple of minutes taking to them, I am sure they will hear you.

Happy Mother’s Day!

The first family

A blanket of white feathers falls from the sky, it’s snowing

 

Stars like diamonds on a blue velvet gown

Shine from above

The majesty of the season is everywhere

 

Christmas is all around us

Not in gifts or parties, but in spirit

You feel Christmas from deep within

Christmas is family and love, Christmas was never lost, just mislaid.

Happy Christmas!