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inside of myself.
I had forgotten
what it was
to actually live.
I had given
up, had chosen
to hide in
the dark. It
wasn’t as painful
as the light.
I had given
up. I was
raised not to
be a quitter,
but I could
see no other
way, could not
see around the
dark mountain inside
of my head.
I lay down
that night to
sleep and prayed
for it to
be endless, to
not wake up.
I prayed so
hard that tears
coursed down my
face while sleep
laid its claim
on my body.
I woke to a
noise in the
kitchen. I got
out of bed
and walked toward
the noise. My
grandmother, long ago
dead, stood making
a jug of
pink lemonade. She
heard me and
turned, a smile
upon her face.
Better drink up while it’s still cold. If it gets warm, it tastes like piss.
Her smile deepened
and she held
out a glass
to me. I
took it, my
hands shaking slightly.
How can you be here?
I asked her.
You died when I was eight.
She smiled and
motioned at my
glass of pink
lemonade, almost
waving at it.
Aren’t you going to drink it? I came a long way to make it for you.
I took a sip
and the tart
sweetness of it
flooded my mouth.
Now, listen. You need some sense knocked into you. You can’t keep living like this.
How else can I live?
You can stop being sorry for yourself for one thing. You can get out there and live.
I don’t know how.
She gave me
a look that
I remembered well.
It was a
look that said
you had better
pay close attention.
You were doing fine before. Now you’ve been given another chance, and you’re choosing to spend it in darkness?
I tried to
think of everything
I was feeling,
all that I
wanted to say.
I don’t know how to do anything else. I’m lost.
So find yourself again. It’s a simple change to make, a simple fix.
I don’t know how.
She sighed and
poured herself a
glass of lemonade.
Her stare softened.
She took a
sip and spoke
oh so softly.
Look, I know what’s happened to you is hard. And I know that change is hard, that it sometimes takes everything you have. You have to make a change for the better.
I don’t know how.
You keep saying that, but why do you have this?
She pointed at
a small magnet
on my fridge.
It was bright
yellow and had
six small words,
six syllables that
resounded, loud and
strong, even through
my current haze.
My life is up to me.
The words sounded
almost like music
coming from my
lips. My grandmother
nodded, smiling kindly.
Who gave you that magnet?
My mother.
Smart woman, your mother. Always liked her. You need to remember those words, every time you’re afraid of making a change. Say the words again.
I nodded and
did so. My
voice was still
soft and quiet.
My life is up to me.
No, no, that’s not working. Why are you living in such a dark place? You need a little light.
My grandmother snapped
her fingers and
the magnet began
to pulse softly
with light, shining
from the fridge.
Now say the words again.
My life is up to me.
The light from
the magnet grew
a little brighter.
And now say it again, but mean it this time, shout it!
My life is up to me!
The light increased
until it was
almost blinding. I
had to shield
my eyes from
its brilliance. I
heard my grandmother’s
voice again. She
sounded far away now.
Never forget, you control what changes in your life. That’s what gives you courage. I am so proud of you.
The light grew
even brighter, more
luminous. I had
to close my
eyes. When I
opened them again,
I was in
my bedroom, still
in bed. I
shook myself awake,
filled with an
emptiness that just
wanted to be filled.
It was a dream.
I said, not
wanting it to
be so. It
had seemed so
real, so true.
I got out
of bed and
walked into the
kitchen. There, sitting
on the counter,
was a jug
filled with pink
lemonade and two
glasses, half full.
I looked around.
Grandmother?
I said. My voice
was soft. I heard
a sound that
was like the
snapping of fingers.
I turned and
looked at the
fridge. There, the
little magnet with
six simple words
was glowing bright
like the sun.
My life is up to me.
I said, my
voice finding strength.
My life is up to me.
I thought I’d try something different. 
I don’t normally write poems with any rhyming scheme or iambic pentameter. However, I thought I’d try my hand at writing a sonnet. I made a comment on Facebook the other night that I felt like writing love sonnets. Someone said I should try, so I did!
I hope you enjoy my first effort.
*
You helped me relearn a language unknown
something primal and unspoken.
Our love has bloomed and has grown,
a seed beginning to spring open.
The language you taught me once again
was one that I’d forgotten.
Every touch, caress and every when,
is but a new leaf begotten.
Inside my heart, the language you speak
is written upon the leaves.
The bird takes them in his beak
and brings them to the breeze.
The tree we planted and nurtured still grows
and whispers the words every time the wind blows.
Behind closed doors, there are many secrets.
We all have secrets. We hold on to them tightly, even if they burn our hands, knowing that they must never see the light of day.
Released into the light, these secrets could heal one life and shatter another. We will take our secrets to the grave, taking comfort in the fact that no one will hear them, that no one will know them. That no one will know who we really and truly are. This is how things have always been.
On Disraeli Avenue, there are lots of secrets; lots of hidden truths buried like treasure. Some are like soft golden coins, shining in the light and begging to be heard. Some are like rubies with sharp edged teeth, waiting to bite the hand that dips into them and draw blood.
In her new novella, Caroline Smailes returns to Disraeli Avenue, the setting for her amazing debut novel In Search of Adam.During In Search of Adam, we got to know the inhabitants of Disraeli Avenue through the eyes of Jude Williams.
Now, Smailes is giving those inhabitants their own voice. Disraeli Avenue consists of thirty-four vignettes, thirty-four insights into the lives of the people who make up Disraeli Avenue.
I’ve actually read this novella seven times now. I read it three times a piece when it was released in it’s previous incarnations and I’ve read it through again. Each and every time, I’m blown away by how incredible Smailes is. It’s a hard task to give thirty-four individual people their own distinctive voice. Most seasoned authors struggle with this for years and never manage to create distinctive voices.
Thankfully, Smailes achieves this with aplomb. Told in diary entries, text messages, letters, receipts, invoices and more, Disraeli Avenue is an intimate and revealing look at the people that make up a neighbourhood; the people that live close to one another never really knowing who their neighbours are.
For those of you who have not read In Search of Adam, you can breathe easy: it’s not necessary to have read In Search of Adam to read Disraeli Avenue. But I can guarantee after reading Disraeli Avenue that you’ll want to read In Search of Adam to see where it all began. Though the subject matter may be grim, covering topics such as death, suicide, sexual abuse, theft, love, friendship, family and more, the novella is incredibly well written and will pull you in.
You will need to keep reading to find out whom you will meet next, whose voice you will hear. Whose life you will get to see into, just for a moment. You will not be able to put this book down. Each chapter brings a new voice, just begging to be heard.
I found this to be one of the novella’s strengths. Smailes has created a tapestry of people, a real live neighbourhood that must surely be around the corner. You start to recognize the different people that populate Disraeli Avenue as they appear in other stories, other vignettes. What’s more, you come to know them. To care for them, even though we only know them for an instant.
Once again, Smailes offers us a study in human nature, a study in what really makes people tick and comes out on top. She isn’t afraid to pull any punches either. There is a vibrancy to her words that leaps off the page and that makes Disraeli Avenue all the more amazing.
I was incredibly moved by Disraeli Avenue and it touched so many different emotions. It has been a long time since a book has done that, has reached down into me and pulled at my heart. I feel I know the people of Disraeli Avenue and I know that they will haunt me for a long time to come. The entire novella was a journey.
Smailes herself has been on quite a journey with Disraeli Avenue and you can read about that here: http://www.carolinesmailes.co.uk/wrote-disraeli-avenue-charity Every cent of her royalties will go to the charity One in Four. You can get your copy of Disraeli Avenue HERE.
Read and be amazed.
Jade does not see the world like everyone else.
A photographer by trade, she sees it more clearly through the lens of her camera. She is tough but takes photographs that show people as they really are, stripping the walls down and laying what she sees bare.
Abandoned by her mother and raised by her adoptive parents, Jade has always felt that a piece of her was missing. Only truly happy when she is creating, Jade trudges through the world, looking for that lost piece of herself. She feels alone in her village, unaware that the answers she seeks to her past are closer than she thought possible.
When she is brutally attacked, she is saved by a Martin, a boatyard worker of very few words. Jade is captivated by him and what secrets he may hold in his past. He walks with an air of sadness and Jade means to find out what is behind it.
Jade is drawn in by Martin and becomes obsessed with him. She yearns to dig underneath his skin and find out what is there. As they get closer, Martin finally tells her what happened to create the air of sadness that surrounds him.
Years ago, his sister Amber, left home. He has never seen her again. Also, his father had a tragedy while at sea. He lost both is father and his sister in on fell swoop and has never been the same. The sea took both of them from him. Though he is afraid of what the water can bring, he works at the boatyard; in that way, he is close to both of them.
Wanting to delve further into the mystery, Jade offers to help Martin find his missing sister. What they learn will change both of their lives forever…
I was blown away and left breathless by Searching for Jade.
First, because the writing is so incredible. It’s very literary in style but draws the reader in with the beauty of it’s words. I was expecting a novel I could rush though but the language slows you down as you want to make sure to read every gorgeous word. There is very little dialogue in the book, but that’s one of the novels strong points.
David Smith brings Jade and Martin’s world to life on the page until you feel as if you are inside the book, with the characters in Aldeburgh, Suffolk, London and Essex. Never before have I read such incredible writing. Smith puts more power in one sentence than many writers are able to capture in one page.
It also has pieces of poetry, dialogue and conversation sprinkled through out to serve as scene breaks or internal thoughts of the characters that help bring the reader further into the story. As the story moves from the present to the past, we are pulled even deeper as more of the story is revealed.
The characters are also engaging. Jade is a tough and life-hardened protagonist that is at once likeable and compelling. Martin is almost broodish, tortured and yet kind. You yearn for these characters and connect with them so completely. I felt I knew them, all of them, when the novel was over. Their lives were bared for us on the page as the story moved to it’s incredible conclusion.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been so entranced by a novel. I took my time reading this as I didn’t want it to end. When I finished it, I was actually left with an ache in my stomach. David Smith doesn’t just tell you a story. In Searching for Amber, he has given the reader a journey.
An absolutely incredible book beautifully told. Begin the search for Amber yourself and fall under the books spell.
chalice inside of
them. That glass
barrier that lies
between body and
spirit. Over time,
the chalice can
break and crack.
I was forever
picking up pieces
of mine. I
would be walking
along and hear
the soft clink
of glass behind
me. I would
pick up the
shard of glass
and let it
sit in my
hand for a
moment as it
caught the light.
Then, slowly, it
would sink back
into my flesh.
It never found
it’s proper place
though, so when
I walked, it
sounded like bells
were singing as
I moved. I
healed my body,
mind and spirit
but the chalice
still remained in
pieces. Though I
was whole on
the outside, I
was still in
pieces. I didn’t
think the chalice
would be whole
again. Until I
met him. As
our feelings grew,
I could feel
the pieces of
the chalice moving
inside of me,
finding their rightful
place, forming the
chalice one more.
They were in
place, waiting for
the moment. When
he told me
that he loved
me for the
very first time,
and I told him
the same, he
pulled me into
a tight embrace.
Rather than break
the chalice, I
could feel the
pieces melding back
together, fusing and
forming. A new music
began to play
from inside of
me. It was
the sound of
bells, made from
a whole chalice
rather than a
broken one. It
began filling me
with light and
love for him.
He looked at
me and said
“I love you.”
The music of
the bells grew
until the world
around us was
filled with light
“I love you, too.”
I said. Light
poured from both
of us and
danced to the
sound of music
and I was
complete once more.