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  • Writer's pictureKerry Chambers

These people, who knock me back as I stalk through the rain that falls like silver against the shop windows blinding, luminescent lights; They sense I am different from them. That is why they are watching me, sneering, allowing the interrogative beams of the storefronts to guide their mindless gaze to me. I can feel their eyes all over my being, scrutinizing everything I am.

Beneath me, that is what they are even as they attempt, with contempt, to leer down their noses at me; metaphysically incapable of reaching a status as captivating and divine as mine.

With a beast of the deepest jade clinging to their unfortunate vessels, these people shove passed me, onwards with their insignificant lives, never knowing what it is to feel. Day after day I am forced to witness, with a painful monotony, these people believing in their own importance, thinking themselves to be a substantial part of the universe, of time and space, of each other’s lives.


When you are just a person, you are just… here.

I watch their bleak expressions, false smiles, their confused movements as they stumble and struggle across the plains of existence, a vast land of little promise. They can’t embrace life as I do. They cannot revel in the unparalleled actuality that I shall be eternally in, for they cannot experience my personal enlightenment. This state I speak of, that seldom have known, has been found through one thing: passion. It is inevitable.

I am a strong believer of passion, of the special few who can channel their own to communicate with others who, heaving a sigh of relief, consume it, indulge in it.

The passionate are underrated. I should know. To understand something that is far from simple confuses and frightens the ordinary, they draw back and refuse to admire the splendour of such a complex phenomenon of the human mind. Yet, as I have said this, I must point out that my own discovery was delayed. Always sensing that this essence (for passion is a beautiful, fragile essence of the soul, often locked away) brewed deep inside of me, it finally erupted with everlasting thanks to one thing.


An entity that haunts, both my dreams and my heart.


Just the thought of her existence makes me tremble.

She… with the hair of golden satin; her eyes refreshing as a lush spring meadow, glimmering green as though the sun shines before them, always. Upon an enchanting face is a firm mouth, with pink lips voluptuous and inviting against the smooth skin so creamy, plump, delicate that it is easy to forget the small beauty mark, on her round cheek.

Charming and appealing is this face, but it resembles a closed book to those about her, impossible to read. Yet I can. I have the key, the power to open this book and, like a language only we know, understand the words written on the page.

She understands me too. I can see it like a rising tide in her eyes as she gazes off, consumed in the labyrinthine riddle of her own mind. One of my fears is not that she shall hide her mind away from me for if I ever should choose to ask, I know, she would let me in, guide me ardently, as the princess did for Theseus. We are one and the same, destined for passion, able to lead one another through the darkness of mortal earth towards our celestial haven where few can tread.

These people I struggle to emerge from as they flock about me, scurrying across my path as I swiftly ease my way out of their swarm to turn down the little side street approaching the home of my blissful bane, could never know another human being as I know her. Amongst them are those who claim to be her companions: impossible, the deceitful can only desire what they do not comprehend.

She and I are one and the same; in a realm of our own, sacred, beautiful, untainted by the passionless creatures of this earth. Not a soul can intrude on the Eden we have created for ourselves.

I watch her, lost in our world, admiring her smile, her heart, her being. I long for the moment I can touch her skin, as desirable as velvet grazing the finger tips. My patience wears thin as I count the minutes before I can hear her heart-warming voice, caressing my ears. Never has a noise – no, sound – no, song (for a voice like hers is a sweet, intoxicating melody) been so mystifying.

Now, at last, I reach my desired destination. Resting upon a familiar, rough, concrete wall, still damp from the rain that shed its final drop less than five minutes before, I stare up at the first story window of the mid terraced town house, indulging in the spell of my yearning, unceasingly aware that my very soul wanders the rooms of that flat. Through brick, cement and plaster, I can still feel the sturdy tug of the string Edward Rochester described as the very thing that fastened him to his beloved. However I have no fear of it snapping, for I shall never allow our parting, to create such a distance that could break our bonds, to suffer a terminal sickness following our unfulfilled fates and lost hearts.

A clear night, the moon beaming its Cheshire smile, I stroll towards the garden gate, sensing that enough time has gone by, never removing my gaze from the single pane window, catching glimpses of her shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling as she goes about her evening routine. My fingers trip over the iron, absorbing the imprints of her upon the metal, before pushing it open gently, silently as her attentive landlord has oiled the hinges once a week just to reassure himself of the elegance of his home.

As I step softly up the garden path, through the single pane glass, I hear that voice I long to lose myself in everlastingly sing the song she loves most, the lyrics etched on her heart she knows them so well.

Smirking at her absent rendition, I ascend the steps up to the front door, unlocked until half past nine in the evening, anticipating the moment that there is no wall between us. Right at this very moment she would be getting ready to relax for the evening. I know her routines so very well. I know her so very well, every look, gesture, word. Utterly, entirely, completely. I know her.

So near now, I shudder as I reach for the handle of the door, overwhelmed to know that she is not far from my side, that our selves, with nothing to bar us, can unite our souls. All is perfect as I close the front door soundlessly and make for the polished wooden stairs before me.

Except for one minor detail. She does not know me…

But she will.

(Originally composed in 2013, a psychological fiction I also posted regrettably on Inkitt)

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  • Writer's pictureKerry Chambers

Some women on a boat; the cynic that I am saw very little appeal in Alex Holmes documentary, Maiden, opening in cinemas this week. From the trailer, which had me thinking of trawling rather than triumph, it seemed to be melodramatic, predictable and worst of all, kind of sporty. The genre I tend to avoid, any documentaries I had seen featuring sports personalities had usually ended in convictions. Yet, with these doubts, I enjoyed it.

"...keenly relevant today, together, the women struggle across stormy seas and hardships whilst standing up to the misogyny..."

It’s been thirty years since Tracy Edwards took her all-women crew out on their restored yacht, The Maiden, to compete in the male-dominated Whitbread Round the World Race. Starting out her years at sea as a cook, as the only female crew-member, Edwards vowed that she would not sail the world below deck again but helm a voyage of her own. So she formed a team of twelve women, and proved the world and herself what they were capable of. A story keenly relevant today, together, the women struggle across stormy seas and hardships whilst standing up to the misogyny of their competitors and spectators.

Amazingly, the archive for this film is vast. Much was chronicled at the time and in the early, and often volatile, life of Edwards and this gives much of the shape to her story. Beautiful moments of melancholy can be felt so deeply. Shots of Edwards, pensive and unaware of the camera, capture her vulnerability in moments of stress and celebration. Her switch from self-doubt to smiles as the leering eyes of the world are on her, one cannot even begin to imagine the weight that rested on her shoulders. It makes for an endearing presence.

"...the ‘tin-full of tarts’ line very retro indeed..."

The interviews feel personal. They have let us in to their world. The crew, a brilliant shambolic collection of individuals each bursts at the seams with their fiery personalities. Their spirit and comradery harks back to the days of old, of adventure. It is neither the boat nor the sea that is keeping them together. Their chemistry, sense of loyalty, respect for one another and Edwards is moving to see captured so vividly.

In one interesting moment, cheering erupts from the crowd as the women pull into port, the crew having earned the respect of their viewership on the third leg. Meanwhile, the interviewed journalist Bob Fisher remarks this was because ‘…they were now regarded as men’ which incited a wonderful ripple through the cinema as they booed. Amusing as the misogyny was, it was enlightening. Presented within the context of its time, the ‘tin-full of tarts’ line very retro indeed, the sexism was not portrayed as scathingly as it could have been. The critical men interviewed years later are handled tactfully, as they display an understanding of the criticism they inflicted.

"...clinging to the boat as the wave’s crash relentlessly, we’re reminded of their awe-inspiring endurance"

The ominous ocean is captured beautifully in the shots of waves carrying us contemplatively through quiet moments. The tumultuous nature remains a staple in the film. As we watch the crew fight back, clinging to the boat as the wave’s crash relentlessly, we’re reminded of their awe-inspiring endurance. For this is what this film is about; Endurance, courage and determination. The editing is exhilarating, masterfully selecting images of the Maiden at sea, the over-whelming numbers of competing boats and the harsh weather conditions. It is story that had to be told raw, from found-footage, from the people themselves.

"... That Little Horror..."

Expansive and yet tenderly personal, the film treads carefully enough that it never stumbles into the sentimental. What this crew achieved should not be forgotten. One of the film’s most touching moments is, as their yacht approaches the UK coast, the sun rising in the distance, the crew weary and the sea calm, they are joined gradually by other boats. And, as their company grows, so does our sense of victory. Watching ‘that little horror’, as Edwards’s mother fondly calls her, finally realize that they have done something bigger than they ever imagined, left its poignant mark on a theatre moved to silence. What I left with, from that screening, was a sense of pride for some women on a boat.

(Originally Posted On Screen & Film School Website 7/03/19)

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Last night I went to the cinema out of necessity rather than want. A need to understand a conflict that has always been present in my life but that I had struggled to grasp. With a father who grew up during ‘The Troubles’, was present on the streets of Derry as the violence of Bloody Sunday broke out, it was very much an enormous thing in my household that I knew happened to my Irish family. But no one really talked about it. When I asked my father who the bad guys, were when he did choose to speak about his childhood, he never answered. So, taking my seat in a cinema in Brixton on a rainy Wednesday evening, I knew that I was about to witness something revealing, uncomfortable but important. And Lost Lives began.

The film opens with the very basics of information, text fading onto the screen; who opposed who and what they stood for, significant dates. The rest is unimportant as the film chooses to set politics aside in favour of the emotional burden of the conflict.

We then soar across the open countryside, rolling hills and vast woodland of Ireland. A book suspended in a shady grove, framed by lush greenery and mossy bracken, makes its first appearance. A vast volume, it is the Lost Lives that was written over seven years by five journalists (David McKittrick, Brian Feeney, Chris Thornton, David McVea and Seamus Kelters) and chronicling over Three-thousand, seven hundred deaths since the ‘The Troubles’ began. The filmmaker’s, Dermot Lavery and Michael Hewitt) choice to keep the text as a physical presence in the film (as they discussed in their BFI Panel Q&A) becomes a recurring motif and one I can’t say was executed faultlessly. A sweeping score, swelling of violins all before our first entry has been described feels heavy. However, as the film progresses this steps back and it no longer feels forced but natural as each tragedy is recounted one after the other.

"Thoroughly impressive is the emotive and raw deliveries of the actors..."

The decision to use various significant Irish actors to perform the extracts from the book was powerful. It saved us from what could be described as harrowing accounts relentlessly being fed to us. To hear these stories is hard enough but to have distinctive voices for each account makes every story count. Thoroughly impressive is the emotive and raw deliveries of the actors performing these stories. I was especially taken with Michelle Fairley. The voice of a mother whose son was shot by an IRA sniper, she reads the open letter the woman went on to pen to him with such pain that I felt it was the very woman herself. Other notable talent includes Stephen Rea, James Nesbitt, Liam Neeson, Brendon Gleeson and many, many more.

The archive was unsettling in its volume, powerful in its imagery with much of the footage unseen by the general public, especially in the UK where some of what was happening in Ireland went unreported. Bridging each moving story and older footage are beautiful shots of the Irish countryside and the newer landscapes of the cities. These are tainted with shots of dilapidated buildings, artillery damaged walls, old, bullet-ridden signs, all reminders of a war fought not so long ago. And the beauty amongst the terror.

But as mentioned before, faults I could find would be in the melodrama of the score, sometimes too much for what is already a powerful story. Furthermore, the presence of the books would have served better, for me, had it been the close ups only of the flicking pages and placing it in perhaps a weary old room. To have it suspended above water or within a field felt unnatural for the stories being told. I understand that there is a great spirituality within the context of the film, a tome holding so many victims becomes an entity of it's own. But for the stories being told, realism was a necessary weight.

"... a requiem for the lost, a reminder for the present and a warning to the future."

Overall I admired its balanced depictions, its respect for all the losses. There was no room for judgment when there is no moral high-ground left. The selections of stories, although all are significant, are chosen to reflect the escalation that occurred, a point that is effective whilst viewing (half-way through the film and the filmmakers are still recounting killings in the seventies, it becomes truly heartbreaking).

The film is a requiem for the lost, a reminder for the present and a warning to the future. ‘The Troubles’ have long been a part of Modern Irish History and many have come to believe that conflict ended in the late nineties and was just that; a conflict. So what Lost Lives has become is a reminder for all that this was a war. A war between neighbour’s, governments and religions that rages on in the hostilities and political unrest currently present in 2019. One of the grieving mothers, who lost two of her sons to abduction and murder without ever knowing why during the seventies, put it best; it is watching a‘…nation committing suicide and [there is] not anything you can do about it.’ And so this film encourages us to look to the future and for change.

(Originally Posted in 24/10/19)

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A Space for Reviews, World Cinema Appreciation, Essays and Reflections by Writer Kerry Chambers

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