Dean Harries

People Are Strange


Dear Sir/Madam,

Please find enclosed a series of letters and documents found at the
scene. The letters are not dated and allude to a poet and writer, named
George Szirtes. Mr. Szirtes was notified and questioned, and denies
previously receiving any correspondence from the defendant. The
correspondence in relation to the victim, Ms. Lucy Lennon, is yet to be
analysed as the investigators at the scene found no means of
identification or history. The victim seemed to be using a false
identity and her employers admit to not vetting Lucy before she began
working with them. Blood samples from the scene indicate more than four
different types, all of whom, except one, have not been accounted for.

All documents have been duplicated and you are receiving the original
copies. For you to shed any light on this would help the constabulary
significantly. Please contact us and arrange a meeting as soon as
possible on the number provided: (0161) 832 8691. Thank you, once again.

Chief Constable Farrington.


Flat 607
Cannon Apartments
Salford Precinct
Higher Broughton
M27 5QJ

Dear Mr Szirtes,

I’ve been closely studying and analysing your work on the ‘Blind Field’
for over a year now and, let me tell you, I’m quite enamoured with every
aspect … including yourself. The ideas and concepts you explore are
truly fascinating. Taking images/photographs and imaging a whole other
world behind that actual picture is remarkable in its invention and
endless in its potential.

Inspiration has always been at the forefront of your poetry. This
devilish Hungarian depicting a world he knows nothing about, but manages
to explain so much… how do you do it, George? Can I call you George? I
break down every time I read your poetry on the Diane Arbus photographs.
Diane only encapsulates the ‘freak’ as an ordinary. Not an ordinary
person. Or even an ordinary thing. Just a fucking ordinary based on
visual contact. You, however, delve into the mindset of the ‘freak’ and
imagine them as something much more. Something much more than an image,
I now search through magazines, calendars and
newspapers; translating the world behind these colourful images. I
create narratives out a simple facial expression and dissect lives based
on the setting… you’ve handed me a new world, George. A world that I
can shape with my own mind.

Lately, I’ve been dealing in the mundane and the ‘real’. Images of
celebrities conjure up too many ideas of the grandeur - popping into my
unconscious faster than I can reject them. Taking pictures of people
walking by me in the street is much more satisfying. The sense of place
and belonging only aids the process of writing, and the writer can begin
to warp reality as much as they like. This imagined reality we write
of, George, stands us in good stead to creating new realities. Our
writings are merely preparations for something much bigger. And real.

This small act of voyeurism was once enough for me, George. Taking
pictures around the humdrum hell of Manchester slowly wore thin. This
city has changed for me, George. I too wish I could find my very own
Budapest. I know I deserve more than this grey. More than a grey one
bed high-rise in the middle of one of Thatcher’s damned villages.
Broughton is smack bang in the middle of Salford, and boasts a ‘Higher’
and a ‘Lower’ end. They are both doomed, George.

As I was saying, small acts of voyeurism don’t fill that void anymore.
The catalyst was, and still is, a girl that changed it all. Her name is
Lucy. Walking the cobbles of Thomas Street in her leopard print fur
coat, with her ‘jeggins’ tucked into her calf-high black boots – she was
a picture of contradiction, George. As confident and brassy as her
clothes made her out to be, she couldn’t hide from me.

I could smell the peroxide in her hair. I could see the smear of
anti-pollution lotion on her forehead. Lucy’s milky white exterior was
hiding a darker girl underneath. The blushed cheeks were certainly not
from the cold or embarrassment, but a natural heat raged inside her. The
tinsel blue of her eyes reflected the flash my camera and filtered any
red eye. She fascinates me.

Lucy was caught in one single frame displaying nothing more than the
cobbles of Thomas Street and the arches of Socio Rehab Cocktail Bar; she
was right in the corner of the story – now she has centred on being the

Whether I should be telling you this or not, George, I’ll let you
decide. But seconds after that picture was taken I started to follow
Lucy. She was carrying a company postbag I just wanted to find out where
she worked. I followed her for around twenty minutes. From the fated
cobbles to The Royal Bank of Scotland, then onto the graphics company
she works for. She is creative, George, just like me.

It was a couple of days later that I mustered up the courage to walk
into her workplace. I had planned it meticulously; making up a story
about how I wanted leaflets designing for a club night I was creating. I
didn’t go into too much detail in case she knew any promoters that
would foil any of my progress. Don’t judge me, George. They are just
white lies.

Lucy articulates wonderfully. She carries herself with a grace that only
adversity can give birth to. I tell her I’m new to the city, as is she.
She catches me staring the odd time but isn’t made to feel
uncomfortable. Lucy is fully aware of how beautiful she is, but it
doesn’t show. Lucy tells me about saving up for her masters in graphic
design, and how she also lives in a high rise in Salford, opposite to
me, in the ‘Higher’ end. I make a joke about how scummy that makes me,
but she doesn’t laugh. Lucy just slopes back off to work with a quick

Now I had met Lucy and showered in her aura, I could slowly start to
change her reality. Draft after draft after draft of storytelling and
profiling through that one image on Thomas Street… Lucy was complete.
This isn’t just my creation, George. You should take some credit too.
The writings are literally on the wall and it will take, by my
reckoning, only two-three days to instil and stabilise this new world of

I write to you 2 weeks after I first met Lucy, George. I’m sat in the
front room of her high-rise flat in Higher-Broughton. When she comes
home after her shift, in approximately thirty-five minutes, we will meet
for a second time… only this time we will meet in the beginnings of a
new reality. The reality you urged me to create, George. Anything is

Sincerely, gratefully, faithfully and graciously…

The Future.


Thomas and Tibb
A poem for Lucy

Walk the cobbles to a Chinese courtyard
And through the mist to Thomas and Tibb.
Whilst the rain drops on the vintage stretch
A girl clasps a clutch bag she’s borrowed with.

Splash Shudehill back to monochrome,
Stitch the bricks naïve and lost.
The negatives of nagging innocence give
Partners to match the gold emboss.

Stacks of straws slip along new bars
Where carts passed
And created the ideal for chrome cars;
A bone yard for top hats and tails.

Be it blessed I guess –
To be singularly communal
And ignored.
A dot-to-dot of the coveted adored.
“I wanna be adored”.

I’ll see you where the posters say
To spin yarn and jump the genres.
Pretend and pipe ‘til people praise
Hopefully, anything we do.
They’ll still buy your hat more than you.

The mechanics of the mad hatter -
A swaggering, lonely soul.
If only told of the impending,
He’d realise!!
Tomorrow wasn’t worth spending.

Little Levers for waves, brave dips in the shore.
Stamp a slab and soak the fake Italians more.
Let the headphones drown the walks hurdles
Of cons, conversation and girls.

The world will always crave pearls
And the Mexican baby will be killed.
‘Great’ grates on those who aren’t great
The whole dole queue spits and waits.


Lucy in the Sky with Diamante
The story of Lucy

Lucy is a blip in reality and an enigma in society. This
introverted girl is the consequence of cause and affect; making her
interesting for all the wrong reasons. Lucy is a leopard skin angel who
will do everything in her power to please, but will never take the
credit for it. Lucy is a guardian of the daytime that doesn’t like to be
known. Lucy is the girl in the corner of your eye.

Hailing from a small, ‘everybody knows everybody’ kind of town, in
Nottingham, she now oozes a newly found privacy in the fairly big,
industrious city of Manchester. Lucy is a girl who longed for the
cosmopolitan life, and was drawn into the consumer society by headlines
and vibrant colours. Lucy now sets her own trends in a place she thinks
encourages individuality. Working for ‘Helldan’s Graphics’ is not
exactly what she was hoping for, but she will persevere nevertheless.

Lucy embraces her 9-5 life with all the hope and fears of a lost puppy.
The angst she feels when leaving work is what really tires her… Lucy has
to have a purpose. Lucy has to have more.

On the day that Lucy was born her mother died due to ‘complications’;
negligence and loss of blood are not ‘complications’. Lucy’s father was
nowhere to be seen. Rumour has it her father was hooked on amphetamines
long before Lucy’s mother became pregnant with her. A life without a
father is common in many parts of England, but the loss of her mother
was something Lucy felt from birth. This wasn’t supposed to happen to

Lucy was consequently brought up in a violent suburb of Nottingham by
her Auntie Sharon and Uncle Kevin. Sharon was the sister of her mother
and didn’t hesitate when asked to become Lucy’s guardian. The phrase
‘Godmother’ has the rare instance of meaning something…sometimes. Lucy,
albeit ‘damaged’ by grief at such an early age, has had a ‘normal’
upbringing. The one thing Lucy never did throughout her childhood was
feel sorry for herself. However, bewilderment and comparison was always
going to be part and parcel of this girl; who could only imagine how
different her life would’ve been had things happened differently. Just
one more flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

As a child, Lucy would sit at the top of her stairs at night and hear
her auntie and uncle arguing about how they would cope; now Sharon was
pregnant again. There were already six of them in a small, three bed
roomed house. Kevin ended every argument with “We oughta nip up
t’Manchester an’ find her dad. ‘Bout time he actually did somethin’ int
it?” Lucy was only five the first time she heard it, but the words “dad”
and “Manchester” stayed with her for the rest of her childhood. Sharon
and Kevin were always very honest about how her mother died, but chose
not to mention her father. Lucy never questioned her adopted parents
about her “dad”. She kept her head down all the way through high school;
constantly under the fear that she would again be abandoned.

After her spell at Nottingham University, Lucy knew she had come to the
end of the Midlands road. The money she had saved from university loans,
grants and part time jobs, gave her the chance to live comfortably in a
moderately priced apartment – in place she wanted the most; Manchester.
Researching each area and choosing the most rundown of the lot, Lucy
thought this could only add character to her voided existence. Within
two weeks of finishing university she had applied, successfully, for a
job, and had put a down on a flat in Higher-Broughton, Salford. Lucy
knew she wouldn’t find him.

August came and Lucy arrived in Manchester in the darkness of summer.
The night had always intrigued Lucy and Manchester was the first place
she would embrace it. Lucy spent her first night walking round Salford
Precinct, alone. The clocks had just turned 1am and Lucy stood in front
of her new high rise home, tears running down her smiling face. Nobody
knows who Lucy is. Her life had begun.

Lucy’s first day in Manchester involved every ‘vintage’ shop on Tibb
Street. Costume jewellery. Clutch bags. Cigarette holders. The ‘50’s
would shape her style along with an added twist of Lucy. The stylish
graphic designer from nowhere. Nameless. Blink and she’s gone. The
mannequin’s in the shop windows no longer reflected her dark locks and
stained skin. Her hair was now an opaque ceramic melting into her whole
body. Unmovable and stabilised. Lucy caught a flash in her eyes from an
unseen snapper. “Ah, the glitz!” she thought. As quickly as she shook
off her past, the future began to follow. All the way to The Royal Bank
of Scotland, and then onto Helldan’s… the future was watching. The
future knew who Lucy actually was.

Lucy? The future starts now…


On the Sixth Day…

The tamsin white taste of love and beauty
Are held in a China doll, ready made
To be changed and altered in an instant.
Yet she thinks she needs to resist the way
Her future is set out in the distance.
Asinine minds lose time and refuse me.

Power of past, of present and future
Are in the pale hands of one who dotes.
Deep down in that repressed mind of yours
Lurks a forgotten ghost who sits and toasts
A thought to the walls that have been laid pure;
Kicking the chinks to crack the picture.

Whispers through cracks are passed to me for help.
Faithful middle man with a plan devised
Of concrete solutions to let us be
One! Discarding virtue and loving vice.
Embrace the night and the shade will recede
‘Til your sun will forever rest at twelve.

Come now – be brave. You are Kafka’s cockroach.
Your parents will not belittle your name.
I am here now – full voice and proud to call
You my disciple. There’s little to gain
From building a castle in front of us all.
Come now – be brave. You are soulless, cockroach.



Date: 04/04/2009
Time: 10:30
Subject: DCI Whittaker interviewing Ms. Lucy Lennon.
Notes and transcript by P.O. Martine Hanford.

DCI Mark Whittaker: My name is DCI Mark Whittaker of the
Manchester Metropolitan Police Constabulary and I am conducting an
interview with Ms. Lucy Lennon. Ms. Lennon was offered the chance to
have a lawyer present with her, which she declined on more than one
occasion. The date is Sunday 4th April 2009, and the time is 10:30am.
Please let the tape know that this is the first interview that
Manchester has conducted with Ms. Lennon. I am joined by police officer
Martine Hanford who will be taking notes for the transcript.


Let us begin. Ms. Lennon, on Friday 2nd April, 2009, officers entered
flat 607 of Cannon Apartments in Salford Precinct at 9.55pm. They found
you, and I quote, “(…) unconscious, face down in the middle of the
floor.” After finding a pulse, and finding no physical harm to yourself,
officers discovered blood stains all over every wall inside your flat
except the room you were lay in. Tests later showed the blood contained
four different types. Three types were animal blood, which are still yet
to be identified, and one type is human. Having found no cuts or
abrasions on yourself, and using the test results that were carried out
immediately, we found the blood not to be yours. Ms. Lennon, could you
tell me where the blood came from? And who does it belong to?

DCI Mark Whittaker: Please let the tape know that Ms. Lennon has
remained silent. This would mean no comment. Could you please tell me
how you came to be unconscious on your floor, Ms. Lennon?

DCI Mark Whittaker: Please let the tape know that Ms. Lennon has
remained silent. This would mean no comment. Ms. Lennon, was there
somebody else in your apartment on the evening of Friday 2nd April?

DCI Mark Whittaker: Please let the tape know that Ms. Lennon has remained silent. This would…


Ms. Lucy Lennon: Stop calling me that.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Could you rephrase that? What should I stop calling you, Ms. Lennon?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: Ms. Lennon. Ms. Lucy Lennon. Lucy. Lennon. Ms. I have no name. I am nameless.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Please let the tape know that I am presenting
Ms. Lennon with evidence number TF001. The evidence I am presenting is
the birth certificate of Ms. Christina Marcella. The birth certificate
was retrieved from Redcar Town Borough Hall, north of Middlesbrough. The
certificate clearly states that your previous name was Christina
Marcella, born on 7th March, 1975. The evidence clearly…


Ms. Lucy Lennon: I was born Friday 2nd April, 2009. I have no
name. I have no agenda. I have no history. I have no ties. I have no
possessions. I have no relationships. I have but a body and a soul. I
have this present moment and the future that lies ahead. Nothing more.
Nothing less. I am immersed.

DCI Mark Whittaker: You have changed your name once before and
now you are asking to be void of a name in a criminal investigation. Ms.
Lennon, what can you tell me about your movements after you left your
workplace, of Helldan’s Graphics, on Friday?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: Pequeña perra tonta. Usted nunca realizará lo
que o quién he hecho. Su pequeño método desviado de conseguir la
información no es nada comparado a lo que he planeado. You will get your
answers once you address me as I am.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Please let the tape know that I will now be
addressing Ms. Lennon with no title and no name. The tape should also
know that Ms. Lennon did not look at evidence TF001 containing her
original birth certificate. What can you tell me about the blood that
was found on the walls of your apartment?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: I cannot recall there being any blood anywhere.

DCI Mark Whittaker: As I said before, there were four different
types of blood found in your apartment, and one type was human blood.
Whose blood does this belong to?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: And as I said, I cannot recall there being any
blood. Anywhere. Listen to the first answer and you will always find the
truth. Just listen and listen some more. Digest. And listen.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Were you attacked in your flat on the night of 2nd April?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: No. I was born.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Neighbours in your apartment recall a loud
mans scream coming from your apartment. Whose voice was this? And if you
were not attacked then how did you fall unconscious?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: I merely woke. I woke from the most lucid dream. I had been created. I thank him with what he made.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Who do you thank?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: The man in my dream. My Creator. The guide and
light. He emptied my soul and lifted the Earth from my shoulders. He
bathed me. He stroked my hair until I fell to sleep. He made what you
see before you.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Do you have a name for this man?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: He is the linear blur between all of us. He is
not what the world wants but he is what the world needs. They praise a
lord that does not exist yet they ignore a lord that does. He is the
past, the present, the future.

DCI Mark Whittaker: The Future?



A Snapshot
Over thirty years ago there was a girl born into a world without a
family. The woman who gave birth to the child was barely sixteen years
old and was not prepared to bring up a child in a world where she had
nothing and nobody. The girl was handed into the care of Redcar
Authority and became lost in a system that is all too familiar with
parentless children. A blue eyed pale infant entered this world without
the only person she really needed. This person believed she could not
give the child a life; not knowing the life she had given birth to was
the only life she needed. A child will forever feel the void left by an
absent mother. This child was no different.

The girl was brought up in the orphanage by the Sister who was on duty
when her mother gave birth. This place was a sanctuary for young women
who did not have anywhere else to go. This refuge would house women and
their children until the mother was stable in her finances and, most
importantly, her mind. However, the mother of this child had given birth
and the left hostel with no warning a day later. Some nurses say she
was addicted to drugs. Some nurses believe she was a coward. Some nurses
believe that she was just a child herself. Speculation is all that this
child was left with.

Sister Hannah Louise tried to adopt the child, but was thwarted by the
law and its strict system. Her employers believed her to be too attached
to the child so they had her transferred from the Redcar office up on
to a public hospital somewhere in Weir-side. Hannah Louise’s last wish
was to have the child adopted by a loving family who she knew she could
trust. Authorities gave her more power and freedom than she should have
had to help find a family. Three weeks later she left the Redcar home
sobbing whilst the little girl screamed through the window, as she left
the building for the very last time. This was the second occasion the
little girl has lost somebody she loved; once in her imagination, and
once in person. The first one was a phantom to her life and the one who
left a crack. The second person was the only one who made everything
seem better than it really was. In her absence the fracture became a
vast hole of self-resentment and inadequacy. The more positivity the
girl was given, the more she would shape it into something darker.

On her third birthday, this little girl was finally given a Christian
name followed by her surname two days later. Christina Marcella.
Following traditions from the church and the trends of the early
eighties, the nurses believed that this name was well suited to the
child and would bring her an aura of confidence and eternal
possibilities. Nurses did inquire to what the child’s mother’s maiden
name was but the young mother had given false details to the refuge on
her arrival. There was no trace of her anywhere. The one thing
Christina’s mother did leave was a note in the cot where Christina lay,
pleading with the nurses and in some ways her daughter, ‘Please do not
try to contact me’.

Christina grew up in total seclusion from the age of three through to
seven. The home in which she was living began to liquidate due to
government funding being cut. The children were being adopted as quickly
as possible. By the time Christina was four she was one of three
children left in the home with four nurses, whom split shifts six days a
week. This home was down to its bare bones for over three years and the
skeleton staff could not encourage the children to interact with each
other. Each nurse tried there best to hearten the three girls to come
together but they all had problems they didn’t want to share. The nurses
knew that it was harmful for the children to be secluded but there was
literally nothing they could do except be there for the children when
they were needed. Children just stewed in their own self loathing and
irreparable imagination. The two older girls eventually found their way
to teenage institutions, whilst Christina grew up alone. The nurses had
heard the whispers of Hannah Louise so they kept a noticeable emotional
distance from Christina. And Christina from them.

From the age of eight through to ten, Christina showed signs of
blossoming from the mute, melancholy soul that she had become. Christina
had found a new vitality that the nurses were happy to see, but
couldn’t understand. Christina would smile at them whenever they came to
see her and the nurses would hear her sing during the day as if trading
lines with another person. It was always The Beatles, and most of the
time it was ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. The song would be extremely
high pitched and Christina would belt out every other line of the
chorus. Christina had never listened to The Beatles whilst she was in
the home yet the nurses dismissed it as something and nothing.

It wasn’t until one of the nurses on the night-shift thought she heard a
conversation down the corridor from her office. The nurse instantly
looked in through the window of Christina’s room to see if she was sleep
talking, and found Christina laughing, talking, pushing, and cuddling a
space of thin air in the corner of her room. Visibly upset, the nurse
tapped on the side of the window to get Christina’s attention and was
met by a furious scream that came out of Christina’s mouth. A man’s
scream echoed through the home. This wasn’t because she was frightened;
it was this intense violation of privacy that had mastered a new voice,
bellowing out from her stomach. The nurse left Christina alone that
night, as always, and immediately recommended Christina for psychiatric
revision the next morning.

From the notes and journals Christina had made, her psychologist had
found that Christina had mapped out, in detail, a series of events and
analysis that were beyond her years. This set out, in a scientific
structure, a false life that she would adhere to. Christina convinced
herself that she grew up in Nottingham and moved to Derby with her
auntie and uncle after her mother had died giving birth. Christina’s dad
was apparently a drug addict who absconded to Manchester. There were
extraneous details to everything and the whole plot was nearly thirty
thousand words long. Some finer points were so vivid and out of her
sphere that the nurses were worried that somebody else was feeding her
information. There were intense conversations that were mapped out like
transcripts and they always involved a lead character who she named the
‘Dark Passenger’. This ‘Dark Passenger’ always uttered the same things
no matter what Christina said. ‘You will be the good girl that you are’.
‘You will become the girl you wish you were’.

By the age of ten years old, Christina had been diagnosed with bipolar
disease and an acute sense of photosensitive epilepsy. She would fall
into fits of manic convulsions not long after her first meeting with her
psychologist. Staff and experts put it down to the faulty lighting that
flickered throughout the home. It wasn’t until they changed the
lighting network that they knew Christina had brought the fits on
herself. She would stare into the corner of the room and shake whilst
shielding her eyes from an imaginary light. Nurses would see flashes of
light coming from her room but when they entered the room they found
nothing but Christina shuddering on the floor. Episode after episode
took place until Christina reached her thirteenth birthday. The two days
after her birthday she didn’t convulse once. Two days after that
Christina had vanished from her room and was never seen again; leaving
behind her notes, her clothes what looked like Hieroglyphics written in
her own blood.



Ms. Lucy Lennon: Yes, The Future. You know of the name? You are of the blessed?

DCI Mark Whittaker: The Future is a name that was signed to
various letters and documents, which were found in your apartment on the
night of the incident. Are you saying that ‘The Future’ is the man who
was in your flat on the night of the 2nd?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: Not a man of sorts. You will find out for
yourself one day. A day when you are hopeless and immersed in your own
self hatred. I too was once like what you will become. And you will beg
for his blessed touch.

DCI Mark Whittaker: Who is this ‘man of sorts’? The only prints we found in the flat were your own. Is this man still alive, Ms. Lennon?

Ms. Lucy Lennon: There you go again. These will be my last words
to another human being so make sure you listen. And listen some more.
The knowledge and wisdom he carries is far beyond anything you will ever
imagine. He will be your friend, your creator, and, eventually, your
master. He has gathered traits of us because he studies us every waking
second. He has found our greed, and it poisons him as much as it does
us. What he gives us he wants in return at a later date. I grant him
that. I give him the broken members of me and the knowledge of poets and
princes. He gives me life. Now take me back to the hole you got me



Caption: Salford City Precinct.

woman who was awaiting trial on the murder of three household animals
has absconded from the bail-house she was assigned to. Lucy Lennon, of
Cannon Apartments, Salford Precinct did not return to the hostel on her
assigned curfew on the day she was due to receive an ankle tag. Police
are unwilling to comment on why there was no police supervision at the
hostel for a woman who has previously spent time in a psychiatric unit.
Sources from the station have also claimed that Ms. Lennon actually
changed her name by deed poll ten years ago, but the details are not
being released to the public.
Police found Ms. Lennon, 34, unconscious in her apartment after
neighbours complained of hearing a male voice violently screaming in
what appeared to be her apartment. The only statement police later
released came from Chief Constable Edward Farrington, who is the leading
figure on the case. “Ms. Lucy Lennon is currently deemed as missing by
the police, but as she was due to stand trial at the magistrates’ court
yesterday morning we have to believe she has absconded. Lucy is a very
frail woman and we need to bring in her into custody as quick as
possible. We do not believe Lucy to be an immediate threat to the
public, although I would not approach her as she may be wary of the
public notification. If she has contacted any friends, or any possible
family, please do get in touch with your local police station. Lucy’s
case is still shrouded in mystery and nothing has been proved as of yet.
This is not a witch hunt. We are primarily concerned with Lucy’s well

CCTV showed Lucy entering Victoria Baths in Hathersage Road,
Chorlton-on-Medlock, on Wednesday 7th April at midday but was never
captured leaving. A thorough search of the Grade-A listed building found
Lucy’s clothes, but no clues to where she actually was. Police urge
anybody with any information to contact their local police station or
call (0161) 834 2929 to speak with officers who are dealing with the


…in His “image” and His “likeness”.

The Ying to my Yang and a light of which
I have carved myself from puzzled pieces.
People despise the unknown in a life
Where habits won’t leave a vice defeated.
The pointed finger is the sacrifice;
A burden well balanced for a birth-wish.

A lone caribou in the falling snow
Knows peace with the lowest of our heart beats.
Content with company she keeps, you see
This animal is what you dreamed to be.
Naked with no history, memory
Or fate. Just a glimpse of the dark below.

An exchange of sorts – damaged for the new
Unscathed, emotionless vessel you have
Now. Try and find happiness in a cage
Where life pours out; wasted at the exact
Moment when the golden hazes will graze
On the wilted shrubbery of the cruel.

Encouraging the weak is but a tweak
On the will of a creature whose deemed strong.
Learning, and watching and waiting to talk
Is but a minute for your years so long.
Trusting the infantile, as she will walk
Of her own accord into the dark sea.

Kiss the waves, and dream of infinite tears
Whilst the sun beats down on your final years.


All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Dean Harries.
Published on on 05/24/2011.


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El Tercer Secreto - Mercedes Torija Mallo (Science-Fiction)