Times long past.

August 1945.
C. J. Black.

The faded dog eared calendar on the wall told its own story.
The scribbled pencil notes on the outer column.
Some dates marked with a circle or an x.
In the corner of the room stood a wooden tea chest filled with treasures from times long past.
The old Singer sewing machine with a garment still attached, left unfinished, one wonders what became of the person who was operating it at that given time?
The sense of what might have been, I sit awhile contemplating the silence.
Listening intently for ghostly noises.
Picking my way gently through the lives of those departed I venture up the creaking stairs, make as little noise as possible I tell myself.
Impossible, as the rotting wood stair steps falls to the floor below, who might I be disturbing?
In the sunshine streaming through an uncovered window at the top of the stairs I thought, are my eyes playing tricks on me? Did I just see a form pass along the landing?
Sweaty palms grip the unstable bannister, I look back, and see the stairway behind me disintegrating.
Turning back, I pick my steps carefully as I descend, on reaching the last step I breathe a long sigh of relief.
Emerging out into the bright sunlight, I make myself a firm promise – next time have a really sound excuse when someone suggests that you invade the lives of those gone before you.
Allow the dead rest in peace.
C. J. Black©β
Monday, 12 May 2014


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