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Stories From The other Side


Pam McCagh

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                                                                                                             This is my story

 

I am not a good speller and I never know where to put the commerce.  Full stops, ex ex ex.But who cares.  What a wonderful life I have had through automatic writing or netherworld channelling.

 

My days and nights and not like anyone else; s. sometimes when I go to bed, someone wakes me up gently asking me to write their story. I sneak out of bed so that I will not weaken my husband. I go into the office, sitting at the computer.  And their memories just came in. Every story that I write is no longer than 7 to 11 pages, they tell me about their life on earth.  Some of them take me through their death or otherwise there will explain how they died. And then they tell me the message that they have come all the way to tell me.

 

When they have finished telling me they slowly let go of this world and move on to the other world. And that is my life, but it's more than life.  I live between both worlds.  I see here and think.  I tune into their loved ones and give them hope for to the future.  I listened to the sadness of the people that come to tell me their stories. I learn something new every day of my life. I have written 12 books.  The first one took me six weeks to write. I didn't think I was going to write another book, but after a short period of time.  I started to write again and I have never stopped. 

 

I have written 554 individual short stories, from all of the world and from all walks of life and from all different types of people.No it doesn't matter what country they come from, when the come through to me, they speak in English, I get someone to transcribe for me.   Their journeys are my journeys, and I love every one of them. And I have won three medals and two awards in America.

 

I have learnt that nobody waits in the cemetery only the living. I have learned what it means to die, and not to hold on to someone any longer than necessary. And how to   communicate with loved ones. And how frustrating, it is for the souls that wait.

 

The children, tell me their stories not out of sadness but out of frustration, frustration that they can no longer tell their mommies and daddies and brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles that they understand about death, and dying. And they are in a place of peace with no pain.

 

It is a wonderful world that I live in. sometimes I live more with the dead than the living, my husband sometimes tells me to get dressed that he is going to take me  for a coffee. It gets me out of the house and with the living again. But I do not mind.  I like to listen in to their world.  I like to listen to their stories. And I understand the frustration on both sides.

 

I am asked every day.

How I communicate I tell them. ’I tell them I listen.  But I listen with my heart is not my ear.  That is the difference.

I am going to put one of their story in, so you can understand how the stories come through.I am going to give you a story from my first book, I hope you will enjoy.

Pam McCagh

Written By Automatic Writing

Who Will Tell My Wife?

                                                                                                    Written by channelling

 

I lay here thinking, who will tell my wife I won’t be coming home?  Who will tell her how much I love her?  I will never see my unborn child. I am starting to lose my eyesight.  It must be around two o’clock.  The sun is still high in the sky. 

 

 I turn my head around and I can see Smithy.  He’s not moving.  I call his name and he still does not answer.  God, what’s happening? I turn around the other way.  I can see James - we all call him Jimmy. He does not like James.  We used to laugh about it when things were different.

 

I am getting colder now. I shout, “Where’s the Medic?”  I can still hear Jimmy breathing.

Where’s that medic?  I no longer feel my legs.  I listen again to the sound of gunshots and I can still hear the blokes fighting.  I don’t think they are far away but it could be miles.

 

Can’t anyone find us?  Jimmy needs help now!  Jimmy’s the youngest one in our platoon.  We used to joke with him, calling him our baby boy.  We should have told him how much we loved and respected him.  Now it may be too late.  I call Jimmy again but still no answer.

It rained last night.  We’re lying in a puddle of mud.  My mind is drifting now, remembering my wife Patsy.  Everyone has a memory of something; mine was when Patsy used to bake. I used to watch those programs where the women used to get flour all over their hair and nose.  Patsy would beat that.  She would get the flour all over the kitchen walls and the floor.  That’s my memory of my Patsy.

 

I received a letter two weeks ago to say I’m going to be a Daddy.  I was so proud of her.  Oh God, who is going to tell her?  I can hear someone shouting in the background.  I try to lift my hand up, but I can’t.  My memories go back again to Patsy.   Where is she now?  And what is she doing?  I put a picture of her in my mind, oh God, she’s so beautiful.

 

Before I joined the army, we would go to the pictures every Friday night, and on Saturday, we would help her Mum and Dad.  Her dad had been very sick so I would help with the heavy jobs around the farm.  The old man had a few cows, three maybe, a couple of sheep and a few chooks, and an old goat that must be dead by now.  How long is it now, two years since I joined up?

 

I hear Jimmy making a noise with his hand.  He’s trying to reach mine but he cant reach.  I can see a stick.  If I can reach it I can give it to Jimmy to hold so he doesn’t feel so lonely.  Ive nearly got it now.  I’m holding on tight to it.  I reach out towards Jimmy.  I can feel him holding on to the stick.  Oh God, what’s happening?  He’s shaking so bloody hard.  I cant hold on any longer. 

 

I try to call out to him but my voice doesn’t come through.  I try to lift my fingers so he knows I’m OK.  I can see him looking towards me but now he’s just staring.  I shout but no words come out.  Where’s that bloody Medic?  I can feel myself drifting into darkness.

 

I'm at home again with my brother and sister.  I can hear the kettle boiling.  I shout to my mother, “The kettle’s boiling Mum!”  She calls back, “Can you turn it off?  I’m just hanging the washing out.”  It’s been a long day for me.  I’ve been working in the fields logging, and there is no rest between times of felling.  I look at my hands and there are blisters on them from cutting the timber.  I rub a bit of goose fat on.  It smarts for a moment and then it feels good.

 

I call out to Mum, “Will Dad be home tonight?”  She replies, “No Son, he’s thirty miles away.  I don’t expect him for a few days yet.”  My friend Bobby calls, “Coming for a ride, Pete?”  I quickly jump in beside him and off we go to the old wood stock where I met my beautiful Patsy.  We were married within that year and then the bad news came of the war. Six months later I was called up.

 

I feel myself back in the fields with my mates and reality came flooding back. I look across but Jimmy’s still starring at me.  I think he’s gone.  Where’s the bloody medic?  I stand up and look down and there is the three of us; so still. 

Someone tugs at my arm and says “Come on, mate.  Let’s go.” 

 Story By Pam McCagh

**************************

 

 

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Hello again, Pam. I'm assuming the first part of your post is true, you're telling us about your 'real' life, in which case it's certainly very interesting. Never a dull moment, huh?!

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Pam, I can see that you are a writer with insight. I have to ask is this a gift or a curse as I cannot imagine any one living in two worlds and holding on to sanity...

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  • 3 weeks later...

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