The excitement, the exhileration, the glory, the cheers, the money and the fame - finally, after long training and hard practice and winning the heats, finally here you stand - the winner.

What is going through your mind, as you are photographed wearing your colours and your winner's flowers? The dust of the track is still in your mouth, and you can still feel the heat of the car. Your opponents slink away, beaten back into the shadows - or else are carried away from their wrecked vehicles. Do you think of them?

Your family look on - proud of your achievement and happy for your victory, but all the time aware that any day it could be you on a stretcher, your car flipping over and over off the track. Your successes and near misses resonate through them all. Do you think of them?

Your team are fussing over your car, lovingly restoring it to perfect condition. The worn tyres are replaced, the bodywork examined minutely, the engine fine tuned. Their hard work and dedication can make the difference between winning a race and losing your life. There they are, in their overalls. Do you think of them?

Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Who knows? Who will ever know anything except what they see in the photographs and hear in the news? Who will ever hear of the hopefuls who lost, the families who looked on, or the mechanics who laboured in obscurity? Your public sees only you, the winner. Do you think of them?

Perhaps, right now, it is enough that you have won.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

“Brilliant! You were brilliant! Well done!” Praises ringing in her ears, Gilly walked to the car. She hadn’t said a word since leaving the dressing room, and all her movements were subdued.

“You must be tired, darling,” said her mum, starting the car. “You worked really hard, and it looked wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”

Gilly nodded, but didn’t meet her mum’s eye. She lay back in the comfortable car seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t move again until she felt the car pull up outside the house, and heard the engine turned off. She listened for the sound of her mum’s door opening, but instead she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I know you’re not asleep, Gillian,” she heard her mum say. “Come on, what’s the matter? You were so excited about being in the play, and now you look miserable. Did someone say something nasty to you backstage?”

“No.”

“You were word-perfect, and you looked marvellous. You can’t be upset about your performance.”

“No.”

“So, what’s the matter? I know you’re tired, but there’s something more. What is it?”

Gilly looked up at her mother and suddenly burst into tears. “It’s all over,” she sobbed. “All that work for months and months and now it’s over forever.”

Gilly’s mum folded her daughter in a hug. “Gilly, darling, there, there. It is a shame, of course. But there’ll be another school play next year.”


**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

Every path teaches you something.

Enlightenment.
Happiness.
Fear.
Exilheration.

Even when you think you are sitting still, the path can take you on a wild ride!

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

PS. If my brain kicks in, I may write this up as a proper entry. Otherwise, that's it. Sorry folks, I'll try and do better tomorrow.
 

Working as a decorator, I get to see the insides of lots of people's houses, but rarely ever do I see them as "homes" - all the furniture is usually moved and covered up before I arrive. Sometimes I find stuff under the covers that surprises me - a really up-market house with cheap furniture, or a straight-laced old lady with a ton of Mills and Boone books in boxes. But this discovery has got to be the most surprising.

We had been working away for a few hours in this big old house, when one of the chairs gave a sort of a moan, then the covers moved! Don't ask me how, but someone had thrown the cloth over this armchair that had a little boy asleep in it! Poor kid was a bit groggy. No wonder, really, since he had been breathing the paint-fumes in while he slept. It can even get to us sometimes, and at least we've got masks and stuff. Thankfully, we always have an emergency oxygen mask with us, because one of our workmen is asthmatic. We gave the kid a few puffs of air, then I carried him downstairs. Poor little perisher, he's got a big house, but no-one to come looking for him. He clung to me like a limpet, as if no-one ever carried him before.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

"Mwahahahaha! Put the prisoners in the dungeon! And oil the rack!" roared Sir Distick

"Yes, master," I replied, wearily. There was only one "prisoner" and he was an actor specially hired for the part. He routinely breaks into the castle in various guises, gets caught and "thrown into the dungeon", then let out and paid his salary. Hey, it's a living. Probably a better one than mine - I have to keep pandering to his lordship night and day, while our professional prisoner gets to go home and sleep in his own bed. Not that Sir Distick knows that, of course. He imagines that the dungeons must be getting very full, and I have to keep inventing horrible deaths for them, to explain why the wailing isn't louder. Well, I'm doing all the wailing, and even using the natural acoustics of the castle, there's a limit to how much noise I can make.

I actually quite enjoy the wailing. I'm not allowed to make noise at any other time, because Sir Distick goes ballistic if I "disturb" him. He disturbs me plenty, but these things don't cut two ways. If I've learned nothing else, I've learned that. One law for him, and another for me. And woe to anyone who crosses him. Usually he leaves the torturing of prisoners to me, in which case they are subjected to having to eat whatever I can find in the pantry, and being forced to leave via the back door. But if he gets angry - and it doesn't take much - then he likes to administer the punishments himself. Took me a month to stop limping, last time.

Poor old Sir Dipstick, he doesn't have a clue about real life. I do my best for him - even if he isn't always grateful. He's got the voice, and the temperament, everything needed to be your classic villain. Trouble is, times have changed. He's become a tired old cliche, no use to anyone anymore. Poor old dark and stormy knight.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

What did she do, the old woman in the foreground? The others are either ignoring her, or glaring angrily at her. It looks as if they are about to go on a journey, and it won't be very comfortable for the older woman if she is out of favour with her fellow-travellers.

There might be a chill in the air - all these women appear to be holding their wraps about them, as if against a cold wind. Perhaps the old woman would prefer the cold wind to the cold shoulder.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

Every inch slathered in thick white cream, he stood before the crowd. The voices raised around him, he had a flicker of thought, an image flashed across his mind's eye, of a mob hounding a man out of town with tar and feathers. If anyone threw feathers at him now, he thought, they would stick pretty effectively. At least, for a while. He almost wished he was covered in feathers - it might make him feel warmer.

Oh well, no use hanging about, he told himself. Everybody's waiting, just go for it. He took a deep breath and plunged into the water. Just twenty-one miles to go. He wondered, ruefully, how he had ever been persuaded into this stunt, but there was no going back now. He was swimming the Channel.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

(Just in time!)
 

Foot. Ball. Football. Or "American Football" as we call it in Britain, to distinguish it from "football", which in America is called "soccer". (Are you confused yet?) American Football is very different from "football" (soccer) and has more in common with the game of rugby, which was invented in Rugby public school (where else?), when a player picked up the football (soccer ball) and ran with it.

However, football, rugby and American football do have a few things in common. Like, mud. Lots and lots of mud. And sweat. And, occasionally, blood. But most of all, they have FANS. Mad fans who would black your eye if you dare to suggest that their favourite game/team/player is not, in fact, the greatest game/team/player since the dawn of time. Fans who travel half-way round the world for the privilege of sitting in a drafty terrace and watching some people in coloured shirts fight for possession of a bit of leather. Fans who prove that sport is indeed a continuation of war by other means. Fans who will hate me for writing this.

I may have to leave the country and go into hiding. Although, in order to escape football in its various guises, I suspect I may have to leave the planet.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

(Late entry)
 

That’s my boy out there, looking good. One of the best I’ve ever trained, and I’ve trained a few. He’s keeping his guard up, hardly ever takes a blow to the head. Makes for a longer career, better for me. Training up a new boy is always a risk – lots of time and money put in, and no guarantee of winning the prizes. The longer I can keep a fighter going, the better. Trouble is, too many head knocks and they get slow, fuzzy thinkers. I mean, I don’t ever pick my boys for their IQ, but I expect them to be able to remember the strategies I come up with. The helmets they wear these days are good for stopping broken skulls, but they can’t protect the brain. It rattles around that padded skull, loosing cells with every punch. One day that boy out there will start slurring his words, and loosing his short-term memory. Then it will be time to train up his replacement.

But there, no need to worry about the future. Right now, that’s my boy out there, winning that prize money. It’s a good way to make a living, when all’s said and done, I provide the brain and my boys provide the brawn. I’ll get myself a new pair of driving gloves, if this fight comes off. The wheel can get very dusty and I hate getting my hands dirty.


**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)


 

Jamie drew his fingers gently along the petal, feeling the soft velvet smooth against his skin. "Come on, petal, stand up," he coaxed, willing the petal to stand tall as it had before. But as soon as his fingers passed the edge of the petal, it drooped down again, limp against its fellows.

Four-year-old Jamie was puzzled by the change that had come over his flowers. He had looked after them so well, with his mother's help. He watered them and took away the weeds, and they had grown strong and beautiful, each petal standing out proudly from the centre. But today, when he came out to water them, the flowers looked smaller, weaker. He turned to his mother for an explanation.

"The flowers are getting old, Jamie," his mother said. "Soon, all the petals will fall off, and the flowers will go to sleep for the winter."

"What can I do?" Jamie begged his mother. "I don't want the petals to fall off! Can't we make them better?"

"No, Jamie. The petals are ready to fall off. They will grow again next year. And your flowers are still beautiful, aren't they? Even if the petals are dropping down instead of standing up? The leaves and stems are green and strong, thanks to your care."

And Jamie looked at his flowers again, and touched their petals in awe. Such lovely things, and he had helped them to grow! He stroked the petal one last time, letting it slide through his fingers. "Sleep well," he murmured. "See you next year."

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

What do you see when you look at me? It isn’t hard to tell that I’m homeless, is it? The layers of clothing, the plastic cup and, of course, the box. Yes, I’m homeless. But what else? What else do you see? Do you see my childhood, see me growing up on a nice, normal street – a street like your own, maybe? Do you see me on my first date, going for a job interview, going to the pub on a Friday night? I did all those things, once. Just like you, and just like hundreds of other people who hurry past me every day.

I might be anyone. I might be illiterate, I might be a Nobel Prize winner. I might be warm-hearted, I might be cold and distant. I might be a native of this country, or a foreigner stranded far from home. I might be tone-deaf, I might be a concert pianist. I might be anyone. I might be you.

What do you see when you look at me?

It’s time to start thinking outside the box.


**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

Swimming - is there anything to match it?

The rush of the water over skin, the power of the sea flowing around you. The freedom to go where you please, to know that in the sea, the whole world is connected. The sea doesn't respect boundaries, it flows where is will. The sea obeys only the moon, turning in response to its silver call, and scorning all attempts to hold it.

The sea is teeming with life of all shapes and sizes. The largest to the smallest, all have room to live in the great, all-encompassing sea. Even animals that do not realy belong in the sea, yearn to be a part of it now and then. Listen, look, here they are now. All that commotion on the surface, can you feel it? The humans are here. Not in their boats this time, not cut off from the sea by wood and metal. They want to be a part of it, to feel connected to the great current. That which they borrow for a few hours is your birthright. Never loose your love for the sea, for in it you have what land-creatures can only dream of.

Freedom.

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

This picture represents a culture so different from my own, I hardly know where to start. I was so struck by the differences, that I felt it may as well have been a picture of the moon, or something beamed back from Mars by the Phoenix. The red planet, the red temple, I know so little about either of them. Or so I thought.

It's strange how things only need to be a little different to give a feeling of complete alienation. Mars is a planet very close to Earth, astronomically speaking, of a similar size and keeping a 24.5-hour day. In reality it is our near neighbour, but ever since man has known about it, it has represented all that is alien, and the source of all kinds of fictional, hostile forces. We are conditioned to view the strange as the scary, the unknown as the unfriendly. A culture so different from our own, we reason, must be a threat to our way of life. And, of course, it is if by "our way of life" we mean the blinkered, parochial way of life that would declare our way the only way. Coming into contact with another culture threatens that mentality by showing that there is more than one way to live. But leaving aside the fear and the politics, if such a thing is possible, let us examine instead our similarities.

This temple is red, most temples I am familiar with are white. Why? What's special about white? It is what it represents - holiness, sanctity, light, etc. But in other cultures, red is the colour of joy, luck and blessing, whereas white is the colour of death. The temples in both cultures serve the same purpose - a magnificent building of the best materials to honour a god. Images of important and powerful beings, plenty of light and many precious things. Those who built this temple, like all those who build temples, did so as an act of worship. They poured their best into the work they did, they gave their best in materials, and they used the temple to give praise to their god.

Beneath the surfaces of both Mars and Earth lie layers of rock, molten rock and a core. Only the surface and atmosphere makes Mars so very different from Earth. Beneath the surfaces of all cultures lie common emotions - love, loyalty, hate, pain, joy, jealousy, curiosity and wonder. Only the surfaces and atmospheres mark cultures out as different.

At heart, all planets are lumps of rock.

At heart, all people are people.


**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

I'm having trouble with today's prompt in the 15 for 15 contest. The image is of a pane of broken glass, one major impact point and a smaller impact point off to one side. It looks like a car windscreen, but it could equally well be a pane of greenhouse glass, or even a patio door. The glass is strong enough to still be in one piece, but the white "scarring" has turned the centre of the pane almost opaque.

I could write about how the window got smashed, who smashed it and why. I could write about a car accident, but I think that probably lots of people will take that angle. I could write a letter of apology from the person who broke the glass to the owner of said glass. I could write from the point of view of the molecules in the glass itself, how their bonds were destroyed and their structure re-formed irrevocably. How no amount of repair work could return this pane to its original state, and only by melting down and re-casting will this glass be useful again, although the process will shuffle the molecules into new relative positions. Oh, deep, Outasync, very deep.

A-hem. So, I could write the story of a great day, marred only by the smashing of a window, or a tale of revenge (either way). I could write about drink-driving (the windscreen was totally smashed and so was the driver,) or I could write about a singer with a voice so pure and a range so great that she could shatter glass on both her lowest and her highest notes. I could even make a story featuring specially toughened glass that could stop bullets - and the circumstances that led to the bullets being fired in the first place.

I could write about any or all of these things, except that my brain feels like this sheet of glass. Still whole, but virtually opaque. My lines of thought are fractured, my coherence destroyed. And my fifteen minutes is almost certainly up by now, anyway.

Better luck tomorrow ...

**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

Prompt picture:
http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1432891
 

A little girl's thoughts about water

Water is brilliant. I can drink it, have a bath in it, pour it in cups, paddle in it, and squirt it. Sometimes it is too hot to touch and sometimes it is so cold! Mummy and Daddy put it on the garden, and wash the car with it, and use it for cooking.

What I like best about water is on a hot day when it gets me all wet and cool. Swimming in the sea is the best thing, playing with the water and feeling the warm sunshine. Sometimes the seaweed tickles my feet and the sand is all warm and squishy.

Water is strange. It knows if you are being nice. If you touch it gently, it slides around your fingers and goes ripple, ripple, ripple. But if you bang hard it with your hand, it bangs back and goes SPLASH!


**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

Prompt picture:
http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1432888
 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334555

Straining every nerve, focused on your goal
Using your whole strength, heart and mind and soul
Reaching for the glory that waits around the bend
As on the last page of your manuscript you type these words:

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334554





**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334552



**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334550



**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)
 

To see the prompt photo, click this link: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1334548

The scent on the wind, the sun on the plain.
The feel of the air, the sound of the rain.
Alert, standing tall on two legs and a tail
The meerkat security works very well.



**Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)