The old woman sat quietly in her chair by the fire drinking a nice hot cup of tea, she felt cosy, almost serene, the vail of sleep only half lifted; still not fully awake. The tea was sedating her perceptions, and it seemed a heavenly pleasure as she relaxed contently, the only sound the gentle noise of coal burning in the hearth, and the relaxing purr of the cat, which she was absent-mindedly stroking on her lap. This was a magical time of day, the sun was rising, as the light of a new dawn gently awoke the earth, as the amber light expanded the dim atmosphere, the room was transformed.

The high ceilinged room was very organised, but looked cluttered, filled with the labours of a lifetime. The coal fire made the air smell, sort of dirty. The smoke of burning coal isn’t as acidic as wood smoke, which is akin to the foul smell of cigars, as compared to the mellow smoke of a pipe. The room smelled of old memories; and wasn’t unpleasant.

She lived alone, almost never having visitors, except for the odd delivery. Her disposition was often difficulty for people to tolerate, which had slowly over many decades, ended any family contact; her nature being frustrating to those with a more, irrational outlook.

This old woman didn’t suffer fools well, and she saw fools everywhere, and for fools she’d a lack of patience. Their uninformed and confused beliefs ground into her mind like broken glass, which often caused her to express, in negation, her reasoned thoughts abruptly and to the point.

Memories of the past filled the room, photographs of long dead faces were on display. Several generations of her family had fashioned the room, adding, with great care, complimentary selections of furnishings and a wealth of curios, that created a kind of character of style, a rich treasure hoard of interesting things.

Her reserved and blunt attitude had isolated her even from her neighbours. She was not well liked locally, and from this, she was sometimes treated contemptuously, often avoided or prejudged, so reinforcing her own perception of isolation, which made her ever more defensive.

Over the years, this negative cycle was strengthened whenever she ventured out, making her more and more reclusive; so hers was a solitary life.

This solitude had become her friend in a way, living alone for decades, an unwanted spinster hidden away in obscurity, with a dozen cats for company, almost entombed in an old house, a house far too big for the needs of one old woman, at least, for your average old woman.

The house had the sort of proportions that would suit a small hotel or nursing home, more than a residence; with most of the rooms neglected, and a badly over grown garden. This very large house was set far from the beaten path; an isolated Victorian building of granite and slate, the closest neighbour was a two-mile walk and the local village was over three miles.

She did however own much of the land around the house, including a fairly large wood of over a thousand acres, nestled in the cradle of a valley, which had a beautiful wide stream running through it.

In the spring her ancient wood was awash with blue bells, and ancient trees danced to the happy tunes of the birds, the gently babbling of the stream and the tranquillity of the earth.

Locally many considered her a mad old cat lady. The few children, in this sparsely populated area, stayed well away from her, thinking her a witch, due mainly to her scruffy dress and unkempt hair. For the children, her mysteriousness needed explaining, and the magic and danger of a witch added greatly to the childhood excitement, when exploring her woodland.

She was not a lazy woman; although that’d be hard to determine superficially, she was a preoccupied woman. She invested her time in the pursuit of one thing, she was an artist, she wasn’t interested in selling her art, or even having anyone see her art, but within her, a powerful passion and creativity drove her immense talent, for she wasn’t an ordinary artist, but an artist without a living equal, her creations were stunning, her subject matter infinite in scope, she’d dedicated her life to this endeavour, her work was her great love, for this love she’d shut out all other distractions.

But, she was old now, although she didn’t look her age. Her talent had only matured over the years, her skills were now greater than ever.

In every room of her large house, paintings were stacked floor to ceiling, carefully wrapped and protected, because her paintings were her children, her love, her family.

When she painted she was happy, the pleasure of completing a masterpiece to her gave a natural high, she’d been fortunate to have inherited the house and a small fortune from her parents, which had sustained her and her driving passion throughout her life. Her only; she still believed; surviving close family, was her brother, who’d vanished without trace over forty years ago; with never a word, sighting or sign of him. She still missed her brother, his genius had enhanced her talents beyond reckoning, for which she remained daily grateful.

The talent to paint, draw and create had always been with her, in her youth her parents encouraged her passion, and were proud of her abilities and skills, she was dearly loved. Her brother’s talents out shone even hers, he wasn’t a painter, but still an artist of sorts, his talent was unique and caused their parents no end of difficulties, simply because he saw reality without filter or obstruction; he helped his older sister, using his perception of raw reality to expand her natural abilities, and that legacy continued to that very day.

After her younger brother’s disappearance her parents had suffered the loss very hard and never recovered; death had soon taken them. Then the activities of life left the house, only her sorrow and loss had been left. Forty years is a long time, and as time passed the memory of her brother faded as a distant and diminishing recollection. She’d slowly grown into solitude, soon only the painting remained, the only light in the darkness.

In her passions she was pure, uncompromising and steadfast, and this preoccupied her every waking moment.

It happened that, on this day, as she was sitting contently by her fire she heard the sound of the post arriving, as it did most mornings, through the front door. She unconsciously glanced at the clock, which displayed seven fifteen. “He’s early today.” She told her cat as she stood up, the cat dropping to the floor in front of her.

As she examining her mail by here front door, she found a letter that would, but she did not know it, change her life. She never received actual letters, just the usual bills or circulars, but this was an actual letter.

She looked at the letter with interest as she held it in her hand by the letter box.

Sitting back in her chair, she carefully opened it. It was from her cousin’s granddaughter, she remembered her Aunt Deirdre’s daughter Hilda from her childhood, a life time ago, her granddaughter was writing to tell her Hilda had died and the funeral was the following day at 12pm, and the family would like her to attend as Hilda had always spoken fondly of her. It was a startling thought, a shock to think that young girl of so long ago was dead, and that, that so long ago, seemed like only yesterday to her recollections. She thought about this for a little while, as she sat in front of her fire drinking her tea. Then, after wrestling with the idea, she decided not to go, she felt surprised at how she felt loss, that young girl of so long ago had died in the sea of transitum temporis, but somehow the loss was palpable.

Later that morning, after her mind had been dwelling on her memories of Hilda as a girl, she decided to make the arduous trek into the village and order flowers to send to the funeral, “with a nice card” she said to herself, “it’s half nine already.” She realised. “Time flies. Peoples oldest ritual, the sacrifice of flowers to add colour and beauty to the passing of the dead.” She said out loud to her favourite cat Jasper, with a smile. She often talked to her cats rhetorically, whenever she had the urge to speak out loud to herself.

She had decided, as the rain looked to be only threatening, and not as it usually did endlessly pour at this time of year, she’d walk. She enjoyed the blustery autumn, to her it was the build up to Christmas, she’d enjoyed such magical Christmases when she was a girl, and the memory was enough to rekindle the feelings, childhood magic never dies, just as childhood horror, but she’d had no horror as a girl.

She put on a thick coat, woolly hat and scarf and locked the large heavy front door after it closed solidly. The garden was so over grown she struggled to navigate her own garden path to the road. “I’ll break my bloody neck. This garden’s so overgrown it’s more like African bush.” She muttered to herself. The narrow road ran close to one side of her house, leading into the wilds of Scotland in one direction, and down into the local village in the other; it was rare for any traffic to drive past.

The garden was overgrown, but still showed signs of a once impressive English garden composition, to the side and back of the house the garden covered several acres and included a small lake, groves of trees, and a beautiful stone bridge over the wide stream feeding into the small lake, even in its present state it was picturesque, an idyllic landscape.

It was a cold grey day, a little blustery as she walked along the roadside to the shops, but the air smelt fresh and bracing, she liked the autumn air, the dramatic skies, the autumn colour of transition and the raw power of nature in cycle, but she never liked venturing out to mingle with the multitude, that was always a chore. She walked often into the wilds of Scotland surrounding her home, it was a rugged hard place with a majesty replete with endless fascination.

She looked down the long road ahead, as she closed her garden gate, fixed into impressive carved stone pillars. A smooth ashlar sandstone wall was attached to these large carved pillars, extending ten meters either side of her gates, after that a dry stone wall continued it, running the length of her garden, but only on the exposed side against the road.

She breathed deeply, the cold of the air filled her and a large drop of liquid rolled out, and dripped unpleasantly from her nose. As she unconsciously took out a handkerchief, she considered the beautiful cloudy vista laid out before her, she blew her nose and smiled, this was a moment of deep love, almost palpably enjoyed, the joy of connection and appreciation of simply being within the great mind.

She turned her attention to the long narrow road, lined on either side with dry stone walling, and set off walking. The wind was cold and relentless but smelt fresh and alive, it was such a picture postcard beauty laid out around her as she walked the hour into the village, each step seemed like a gift.

The road was sunk into the land, with seven foot high drystone walls either side, while on the overside of the walls the land sat only four feet below the top. Centuries of carts and cattle had cut away the land, to create a deep trough, now tarmacked and walled.

The trees were now half bare of their golden Autumn leaves, there fallen now blanketing the ground.

She walked steadily along for a while, enjoying the excursion, but as she rounded a corner, she noticed a young boy sat high up on the drystone walling, looking down on the road, with his feet dangling over the side. “Hello” The boy said confidently, with a smile. He had fiery ginger hair, a face of freckles and wore a woolly bobble hat and scarf, and a pair of blue wellington boots with the image of Spiderman embrassened on the sides.

“Hello. You be careful up there.” The old woman said looking up at him.

The boy smiled at her. “I will.

Are you going to the village?” The boy asked, he looked about eight or nine years old.

“I am.” The old woman replied.

“Can I walk with you?

Are you really a real witch?” The boy asked with interest.

“No, I’m not a witch.

Are you by yourself out here?” She asked him.

“Yes.” The boy said as he began to climb dangerously down the face of the drystone walling, the old woman rushed towards him fearing he would fall, but he landed on the road as she got to him. “Can you do magic?”

“No.” she replied a little out of breath, she panted for a little while. “You can walk with me if you like.”

“Why are ya called Cailleach then, if you can’t do any magic?” The young boy asked suspiciously.

“I bet you just don’t want to tell me.

Could you show me some magic?

Please.” The boy asked expectantly.

“What’s your name?” The old woman asked him.

“Callum.” He replied.

The old woman held out her gloved hand, and Callum shuck it. “I’m Gwen.

Well Callum, I can do a little magic, but I’m not a witch. Check the pockets in your duffle coat.” She smiled.

Callum quickly checked his pockets and pulled out four chocolate eclairs sweets. “Woew. Thanks.” He said as he unwrapped one of his sweets. They walked together to the village as Callum ate his sweets happily.

When they arrived at the village, Callum thanked her again for the sweets and ran off. Gwen walking along the high street alone, looking through the colourful window, until she arrived at the florist’s, she looked at the displays arranged carefully in the florists window and pondered what she’d write in the card.

She went inside. The florist, an unhealthily thin woman in her mid fifties, glanced up from an arrangement she was creating, and recognised the old woman. “Can I help you?” she asked with a cold tone without looking up from her work.

“No need to be rude woman.” The old cat lady responded sharply with a scowl.

“What? I asked if you needed help?” The florist said defensively, a little knocked off balance.

“Anyway, I need a wreath for a funeral to be delivered at Saint John’s church, in the city, tomorrow morning before eleven.” The old woman said looking around.

The florist put down her pruning shears and walked over to the counter, her greed overpowering her dislike of the old woman. “If you look through this book you can select which wreath you would like, or I can make a special wreath with words in flowers, whatever you decide on. Deary.” The florist said feigning a smile and opening a book on the counter next to her till.

The old woman flicked through. “They’re very pricey! Based on the same fools value given the tulip bulbs of the seventeenth century?” She commented rhetorically in a distracted way, as she concentrated on her selection.

“I don’t understand?

The delivery is also extra.” The florist replied.

“This one ‘ill do.” She jabbed her finger on a picture in the book. “£140.”

“Plus delivery.” The unpleasant florist replied. “So, the total will be £180.”

“Ridiculous!” The old woman stated abruptly in a low voice. She felt robbed, but knew there were no other easy options. “Delivered before eleven tomorrow morning.”

After carefully writing out the card and paying, she left.

She decided as she was in the village, she’d get a little shopping.

When she approached the village’s general store she saw small cards displayed in the front window advertising jobs, second hand items and businesses etcetera, this gave her an idea.

“Could I place a card in your window?” She asked the woman, whom she’d known from a child to her present middle age. From a young age she’d worked behind that same counter, growing lager by the year, and she was now quite a size. A very portly lady, with a shining happy character, Mrs. Royston, by marriage, her family had always run the McTavish shop, and still did.

“It’s six pounds a month, or two pounds a week, Gwen.” Mrs. Roydon told her, as she handed her a card and pen. Gwen was well known in the village, having spent her entire life living in the area.

“A month should do.” Gwen replied.

Gwen wrote an ad for someone to do her garden and odd jobs. Gwen handed the card back to her.

Mrs. Roydon held the card in front of her, “Such beautiful handwriting.” said smiling admiring the card. “I wish I’d learnt to write like that, my handwriting looks like I’ve just started learning. Compared to yours.

I’ll put it in the best spot for you, in the window. But you’ll be lucky to find anyone around here to work on your garden. Can’t think of anyone who’d be interested; off hand.

If I come across anyone, who may be interested, I’ll tell them about your ad.” Mrs. Roydon smiled.

Gwen wandered around, selecting her shopping, before eventually heading home in a taxi.

Once she’d arrived home and put away the shopping, and made herself some food, she settled down again at her painting, ready to indulge her passion, but at that moment of contentment, there was an unexpected knock at her door, at which she tutted loudly.

When she opened the door, a young woman stood before her, well dressed and quite beautiful. She smiled at the cat lady, who was frowning. “Yes girl, what do you want?” She asked curtly, imaging she was after selling something.

“Hello. I’m Hilda’s granddaughter, Cathy, I wrote to you about the funeral?

But knowing you’re reclusive, I was afraid you’d decide not to attend the funeral tomorrow, so I thought I’d come and try to convince you in person.” The Young girl replied.

“I haven’t seen Hilda since we were girls.” The old woman was silent a second or two.

“She was my best friend growing up.

We’d many good adventures.” The old woman said sadly.

She sighed. “OK. I suppose you can come in…

And I suppose you’d like a cup of tea?” She asked the girl as she wandered away from the open door.

Cathy closed the door and replied, “That would be lovely. Thanks” as she walked along the hall.

But, she stopped dead after a few steps. What she saw was unbelievable, the high ceilinged walls were covered in paintings, she looked at them as she moved slowly along the wide hallway, hypnotised by the incredible detail, the depth, the skill, the subject matter, the quality and beauty of these painting was simply amazing. She’d normally ignore paintings having no real interest in them, but these paintings startled her, like seeing a truly beautiful soul startles, transforming a fleeting glance into a stare.

“This way girl.” The old woman gestured.

She invited her into the living room, a coal fire was burning in the hearth, the cats were dotted around sleeping, and a row of partly completed canvases were lined up on easels facing the large window, overlooking her wild garden, and the magnificent rugged landscape of autumn colour extended beyond.

The girl was dumbstruck; all she could do was to marvel at each new masterpiece she came across, as she moved slowly from the hallway into the living room. “I’ll be right back with the tea, take a seat.” The old woman told her as she left the room.

The girl toured the large living room, examining some of the paintings, and drawings, not just hung on the walls, but also stacked up, in that room alone there must have been several dozen paintings. And each one was simply amazing.

A few minutes later Gwen returned. “Here’s the tea. You’re fortunate I went to the shops this morning, so we’ve biscuits.” The old woman said walking into the living room with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Thank you.” The girl said as she took a seat near the fire, the heat and smell of the coal fire was comforting and intimate. “I was just admiring your art work; you have amazing talent.” The girl told her.

“At every moment you choose yourself.” The old woman said cryptically. “I have a photo album of me and your grandmother, from when we were girls, would you like to see it?” The old woman asked.

“Please.” The girl replied giving Gwen a big smile. They drank tea and chatted, the old woman reminisced about her youth as they examined the photo album.

“This was in the summer of 1940.” Gwen jabbed her finger at a photograph of an orchard filled with children collecting apples, “Churchill’s war was raging, the Rothschild’s manipulations were reshaping society, and fear and lies dominated.

I remember; my father’s outrage at the Rothschild’s whore, Churchill, being imposed as Prime Minister, he said it was as criminal, as putting a compulsive paedophile in charge of an orphanage.

But, the joy of living wasn’t completely lost, in those years.” Gwen smiled, as she looked at the picture and reminisced.

“I thought Churchill was the hero, during the war?” Cathy asked puzzled.

“Churchill was the instigator and driving force behind the war, without him the second world war would never have happened. Many knew this at the time, and he was a hated figure to many across the country, but as always history is written by the victors, and reality reversed.” Gwen smiled.

“Didn’t Churchill save us from the Nazi’s?” Cathy replied.

“Nazis? ‘Nazis’ was a Jewish label. Hitler was a socialist, which is bad enough, but he was not as painted by Jewish historian fantasists.

No, Hitler had removed the banking Mafia from Germany, the Jewish power reacted to this by declaring war on Germany 1933, and shortly after set the Reichstag fire, home of the German parliament in Berlin. By mid March they had set up a global boycott of all German exports, which they enforced with violence, should anyone dare to ignore it, going as far as burning down businesses. The Jewish powers also shut down immigration out of Europe at that point, brokering the Haavara agreement with Germany, that lasted until 1939, allowing Jews free transport to Palestine.

Hitler simply demanded the return of part of Germany stolen by Poland after Germany’s first world war defeat. Churchill prevented the German government regaining the part of Germany stolen by Poland, which resulted in Hitler invading that part of Poland and taking it back by force, then allowing the media whores to distort events, and so ignite a second world war.” Gwen explained.

“Why did you and my grandmother lose touch?” Cathy tried to change the subject, as she felt, she was being lectured, and Gwen’s ideas were making her feel emotionally disturbed, her beliefs were conflicted, Gwen’s views made her uncomfortable.

“Hilda wanted the world, I wanted the adventure. She chose a path that didn’t interest me, and over the years my disinterest drove her away I suppose.” The old woman replied.

“Adventure?

Have you travelled widely?” The girl asked.

“I’ve never travelled beyond relatively short distances; except after my brother disappeared for a few short years. Why would I leave my true love?” Replied the old woman.

“How could you create the images you’ve painted, there isn’t even a television here?” The girl puzzled.

“My paintings are the stories I create from my imaginings and perceptions, I take the images from those imaginings and perceptions and make them manifest on canvas.” The old woman answered.

“Stories?” She replied looking puzzled.

“Yes.” The old woman answered unhelpfully.

“Could you explain?

What is the story of this amazing painting over your fire place?” She asked.

“The death of the unknown solider?” The old woman said.

“Yes, is that what the painting’s called; what story did you imagine for that, it’s quite a macabre, brutal image?”

Gwen stood and walked over to a bookcase built against a wall filled with rows of the same book, but each with a different number on the spine, Gwen selected a book and returned to her seat, she made herself comfortable then opened the book, flicking through the pages until she found the story she was looking for.

“Well.” Replied the old woman earnestly. “What’s a life?

Is it simply a random chance of circumstance without purpose or point, a life lived simply for the living, where death is the conclusion leading only to a black oblivion, a conclusion of utter nothingness?

Or, is it, our own free will that transforms the potentials of life into a purposeless grey monotone of inanity, so generating the fear of an end leading to the same black oblivion as the life so painfully squandered?

The boy in the painting is the unknown soldier, he is laying still, his wounds are beyond the skill of those around him to give aid, it’s at this point he’s considering life’s end with great focus, he can taste his fear and desperation.

Each breath now is a gift, the foul, stagnant air being the sweetest air he could possibly imagine, he looks around through his pain, and his terror grows as he sees the death and suffering that surrounded him in a gloomy room of horrors, its blood covered floor decorated with gruesome discarded remains, and the air alive with the agonies of the vanquished. A poorly lit room filled with the dead and dying, attended by the incompetent, or the eager sadist, who indulge their respective capacities with enthusiastic exuberance.

He lays ignored, his body in tatters upon this table of death, his pain overwhelming his mind to a point of endurance he feels he couldn’t bear much longer. His eyes are wide, his face tormented in a grimace of total focus, he breaths in stunted breaths. A man stands over him, lifting the blood soaked cloth that covered his decimated body, then dropping it back; he walks away disinterested.

He would die alone surrounded by people, what a place to die in denigration, what had he done to deserve such contempt and irrelevance in this cold, cold world. He now begins to realise no one was going to help him, and from this realisation pragmatism washes upon his mind. His panic calms as he sets himself upon the inevitable end he now faces.

His pain begins to dissipate as his body slowly fails, and his thoughts wander inexorably back to the single decision that’d brought him to this sorry situation.

How’d he arrived at this desperate point?

He’d volunteered!

He couldn’t believe his actions; he was now in total amazement at how stupid, gullible and xenophobic he’d been. Then of course he’d no idea of what he was asking for, he’d eagerly queued up believing the lies that filled the newspapers, the media whores had tricked him, he signed away his limited freedoms, giving his very soul to the soulless of the military machine, to be murdered for the amusement of his imposed masters. “If I knew then what I know now I’d have fought against the very people I’d fervently supported”, he thinks, his pain easing further as the life drains slowly from his body.

He’d quickly realised soon after arriving, it didn’t matter to the soulless masters which side you fought upon, only that death and carnage reigned supreme. Death was the objective, nothing more, the agenda was to murder, to murder as many souls as possible in the most efficient way imaginable, he’d seen so much murder since he arrived in the land of death and carnage, so much pain, so much suffering, so much horror.

He manages a small ironic laugh as he thinks how bellicose his outlook was as he stood in that queue, all those souls lined up to defend their country from the enemy, he wondered how many from that long, long queue still lived only a few months on.

He understood the contempt for his life in this theatre of death, he was here to die, to suffer, to awaken, he’d been asleep to all reality before he arrived here, he’d been so easy to control and manipulate, so naïve and childish, and how, how trusting of authority, that was the bitter pill, how trusting of those who were not fit to breath clean air or live in the community of others, those who plotted his demise and the demise of all empathic souls.

There were many soulless vampires in this place, those creatures who loved to murder, that relished the destruction and suffering, those that had no conscience or empathy, the cold blooded murderers of war. These psychopathic creatures maintained the conflict, without them, all war would be impossible, they were the driving force, the willing slaughterers of their comrades, or their adversaries.

He’d always avoided the vampire heroes of hierarchy; they were the ones the brass revered, the glorified and decorated.

The heroes of the media, the glorified patriots, the soulless creatures that people idolised, the greater the number murdered by these creatures, the greater the accolade; as propaganda ruled in war, murder was the goal, and murder was the business, the greater a hero the more proficient a mass murderer. Only a soulless man could do the barbarous ‘heroic’ deeds of war, and the more heroic the deed, the more death, the more destruction, the more suffering imposed, and so the more reverence and worship the media invested in that soulless hero.

His pain had lifted as death stood over him, he smiled at the irony of his family who would think he’d died for a noble purpose, he knew that lie was invested deeply, and used as a way to give justification to his murder, a murder no one would ever be answerable for, no one would ever investigate, or take any interest in determining who caused his injuries and death, his entire life washed away simply for the amusement of the vilest of all forms, the elite, who subjugate and deceive the masses.

His mind drifts back to the root of his death, the queue to sign into war, that queue, flag waving, patriotic queue, that king and country lie, that long queue of fools, how he wishes he’d been better informed; but he knows deep down even if someone had explained the realities of war to him, he would have aggressively denied their truth and abused them for their honesty.

It was a good trick, one they began from a small child, filling the head with an ocean of lies, people were made drunk on the lies, but it’s so hard to see the lies until you’re exposed to bare truth.

He now realised the true form of slavery was hierarchy, it gave status and through that fictional perception allowed some to dominate, and act free of all accountability, and others to have no value or protection. He was not of a valued status; he was simply a foolish soul who’d willingly jumped with both feet into a meat grinder; a meat grinder that was dressed up as a great adventure. But it was no adventure any sane soul would entertain; it was a perpetual moment of horror that had no escape, created through the violence and fear of the fictional construct of hierarchy, and hierarchies are always dominated by the hellish minds of the walking corpses of the soulless.

He thought about his short life, eighteen years, now his time had come to die, his heart filled with a terrible fear of death, but he does not weep nor pray for a little more time to live.

His pain has stopped, the light is dimming in his eyes slowly, he thinks about the great lies, dying for your country as a hero, giving your life to something bigger than oneself, what a lie, could any lie be bigger, he was murdered for the advantages of the masters of a hierarchy that cared less than nothing for him. These were bitter thoughts.

He would’ve left that free range slaughter house of death the first day he’d arrived, but the heroes prevented him, the vampire heroes would eagerly shoot you for even thinking of walking away, and they murdered many for doing so. Fear of certain murder by the soulless heroes of your employer, then motivated facing only probable murder at the hands of the invented enemy of your employer.

The whores of Fleet Street had conned him onto that table, and they would lie about him when he was tipped off the table into a muddy grave.

He remembered the headlines. “The soldiers that don’t come back are the heroes.” Yes, death is such a heroic act he thinks, death is not heroic it’s gruesome, he’d witnessed so much hero death in the few weeks he’d endured this horror show, compelled to witness thousands of good souls torn apart simply for the sport of their owners.

He remembered another. “If a bullet has your name on it, you’re a hero.” Propaganda of the most criminal kind, no wonder alcoholism was so rife in journalism, to write such lies and hide such truths simply for the wages of a whore.

A priest stood at his side, he was speaking Latin and reciting some religious mumbo-jumbo over him, but this dying boy wasn’t a religious man, and if he had of been, the experiences he’d had, made certain in his mind no God could exist. Then he feels the priest trying to remove the gold ring his father had given him before he left for war, it was a tight fit, he was pulling hard but it wouldn’t budge. He walked a few feet away then returned with a pair of shears, he lifted his hand and put his finger between the blades then snip; off comes his finger, the pain seems minor to him now, so close to death. Taking the ring, the priest throws the finger on the floor, discarded like rubbish, he puts the ring in his pocket and wandered off. Robbed by a priest, the final act of lunacy in the lunatic asylum he thinks.

He’d be buried in the mud, no marker to show he’d ever lived, no place for a flower to mark his remains, no soul to morn, no tear to drop. He would be unsung, and soon forgotten, he’d had such great dreams, he’d wanted to do so many things, to see so many places, to kiss so many girls. But all he had, and all he would ever have, had been stolen with contempt by his employer, for the meagre wages of war, but he’d taken those wages eagerly, although he’d never even had a chance to spend those meagre wages, his life in the end had cost his employer, the ink he used to sign away his own life.

As the light dims in his eyes, and the air releases from his lungs for the final time, his heart stops.

The suffering and horror of his short life finally finished, no one had noticed his death, and in that place of sardonic healing, no one cared about a lonely frightened boy slowly dying in agony, any more than they would have cared about a cockroach in a drain.

A once strong young body ripped apart and motionless, his eyes now staring cold and dead as his soul releases the shell of perception.

Wars are no longer started for the selfish advantages of Kings and Queens, through monarchic power; power established through genocides, imposing and forming feudal fiefdoms. The feudalistic State was birthed by the Vatican, aided by the Ashkenazi, for the enslavement of all humanity.

But, since the birth of the Vatican’s fraud of democracy, which creates perpetual conflicts, war is started by propaganda.

At first the lies of the agents of the State were used to mask reality, who simply announced the lies publicly, but as the printing press took over, it became the lies of journalists, instituted and enforced by the slave owners.” The old woman finished speaking, and only the gentle sounds of the fire remained as the girl stared at the painting.

As Gwen had read the story, the painting had seem to come alive, the details vividly crafted into the fabric the canvas. “Do you sell your work?” Cathy asked, breaking the silence.

“No! I’ve never sold a painting.” The old woman said.

“You don’t want to sell your work?” Persisted the girl.

“Why would I sell the product of my soul for money girl, I’ve enough money, but I can never replace a child, these painting are my great love, each to me is a child, I give birth to them, and they in return give me pleasure, I’ve so many children now I’m neglecting them, they fill this house. Some I haven’t seen in 60 years or more.” The old woman said a little sadly.

“Are you planning on attending my grandmother’s funeral tomorrow?” Cathy asked sensing the old woman’s growing tension.

“Well I wasn’t intending to…

But. Yes, I’ll attend.” Replied the old woman, “I’ll get a taxi and be there around eleven forty-five.” She replied.

“If you like I can pick you up, I only live about fifteen miles away, I can collect you around eleven, if that’s OK?” Cathy offered.

“That would be very kind of you. Thank you.

Gwen poured some more tea from the pot, into her cup. “Would you like a refill?”
Gwen offered.

“You know, I was with Hilda when your mother was born. That’d be…

Was it 1948, I remember her labour started at a new years eve party?

Now, I forget what she named her first child?

Was it, Agnus?” Gwen asked.

“Ann.” Cathy smiled. “Yes. 1948. Yes her birthday is January first, easy to remember.”

“And, Ann is your mother?”

“Yes.” Cathy said as she held her cup out for a top up.

“Did you know January first was not always the first day of the new year?”

“It wasn’t?” Cathy said surprised.

“No. Originally new years day was April first.”

“April fools day.” Cathy gave Gwen a look, as she realised she must be messing with her.

“Yes. The Catholic church changed it to January 1st.

To me it’s interesting, the origins of things. To my brother it was first principle.” Cathy didn’t answer, she didn’t really understand what she meant, and was thinking about it.

“During the seventh century the Emperor Justinian and his wife wanting to destroy the belief in reincarnation. But the new year began during the birth of Spring when life was reborn. And to every eye it was clear, as trees burst back into life, flowers bloomed across the land, wildlife gave birth, life was reincarnated from the lifelessness of Winter.

Back in the seventh century of course a corporation of religion was the tool of mind control, now the mental governance is done more directly with a govern mental corporation.” Gwen explained, leaning over and pouring a little milk into her cup of tea.

As she stirred, she continued. “The fools of April originates from the people of France, who continuing to celebrate the new year on April first, to end this the church trained their mental slaves to call them April Fools.”

“Really? Is that true?” Cathy asked not quite believing it.

Gwen changed the subject. “You seem young to be Hilda’s granddaughter?” The old woman said after realising the age didn’t seem quite right, as she considered Hilda’s age, and Hilda’s daughters age in relation to Cathy.

“I was an accident, my Mum got pregnant at forty-seven, I was born in 1998, so I’ve a mature family, my brother is twenty years older than me, and my elder sister is twenty-five years older.” She told her.

“You must be in your nineties?” Cathy stated. “You don’t look sixty?

How is that possible?”

“Yes. I was born in 1929, a few more years and I’ll be a centenarian.

My brother, would be the reason I do not look my age. He was a gifted man.”

“You know, this may seem odd, but it must be twenty or thirty years since I sat and chatted with someone.” Gwen sat reflecting on this realisation as she sipped her tea.

There was a short silence as Gwen stared into the fire. “My solitude doesn’t depend on the presence or absence of people; on the contrary, I hate who steals my solitude without, in exchange, offering me true company.” Gwen quoted another almost to herself.

“What?” Cathy asked.

“Nietzsche.

Solitude is the logical position of anyone who’s unmasked society.” Gwen smiled.

“How do you know all these things?” Cathy asked.

“How can you not?” Gwen replied.

“It’s odd I never heard you had a brother?” Cathy asked.

“Yes. I have.” Gwen smiled, not wanting to talk about her brother.

“Your great grandparents were interesting…” They chatted about this a little more before the young girl left.

Click Here for: Chapter Two

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The Love of Solitude

Chapter One

The Cat Lady

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