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16 October 2014
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Emma Jones
Emma Jones

My name is Emma Jones. I am 37 years of age and I live with my Partner and his daughter. My hobbies include reading, painting and of course writing, I am looking for some feedback in the hope that my writing will improve as a result and also to gain a bit of confidence.

A Stroll by Emma Jones


It seemed an odd day to go for a walk. The clouds were twisting and swaying above my head, the accompanying darkness held no warmth or promise of a brighter day. The wind whipped at my clothes and pierced my skin. I felt tired and lethargic not in the least energetic as I trudged towards the promenade.

A few people strolled by, their heads down and their faces muffled against the wind. If I knew them they failed to acknowledge me and I them for I feared the rigmarole of the polite salutation, however brief. I ducked out of sight and took the back route, hoping to see no one else on this dark dismal day.

My home offered no sanctuary. A fire burnt brightly but I felt no warmth. I would rather feel the sharp, icy bite of the wind than spend another minute in my domestic idyll. I felt paralysed; I needed to escape but did not know where to go.

Eventually I heard the crash of the waves and turning a corner the river was spread out before me, its grey waters swept by urged on by the incoming tide. Gulls circled in the sky, their cries echoing the plaintive call of the wind. On the other side of the river I could faintly see buildings disappearing and reappearing behind a grey mist that threatened to obscure everything from sight.

I breathed in deeply inhaling the salty air and stood transfixed staring at the all conquering water that was spread out before me; this put everything in to perspective. It calmed my chaotic thoughts, assembled them back in to neat little piles that I could deal with more concisely.

I watched small fishing boats turning with the surge of the tide, their small frames straining on the end of lines that stretched out deep in to the murky waters. I wished I could be cocooned aboard one of these small vessels away from prying eyes, held aloft by the flowing river, held secure by nothing more than a twisted rope, its anchor secured in the muddy depths.

There I could find a refuge but only for a few brief hours. The tide would turn, the water would ebb away and the boats would lay abandoned, cast aside, tied to the shore, no longer straining to be released. They would wait calmly on the banks of the river to be re-boarded and there I would be discovered.

I looked at the river, its heaving mass and wondered if I could be consumed in its freezing waters but fear over took me and I knew I could not stand to feel the gasp for breath, my lungs submerged. I was a coward at heart and knew I should flee. Run for the hills, never look back but I turned to home with my heart only slightly lighter and knew I was a prisoner of my own making.


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