It’s Silent Here. From my granddaughter.

 

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It’s silent here. The illuminated ball that once shone over you is being wrenched from above, leaving you alone in a lightless paradise with present peace at mind.

A bronzed blanket lay under your bare feet, as the waves ran across the shore.The warm breeze rushes past your face leaving the bitter taste of salt lingering in your mouth. Previous memories of being a young child, stumbling towards the shoreline, buckets and spades at the ready, your parents struggling to keep up. But its different now.

Abandoned. Nothing but a few seagulls in sight picking at what waste was lumbered there. Rummaging through old crisp packets, chip boxes and ice-cream cones looking forward to what they may receive.

The soothing atmosphere unwinds and tranquillises your soul, leaving you at peace with the world. Flashbacks of your youth as your weak, aged, body stumbles to the floor, slowly you let go and withdraw from this life. It’s silent here.

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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