stories

January 21, 2015

Morning Walk

, , , , 2 Comments

‘Shambles is as shambles does…’ he muttered to himself as he hirpled along the road, his shoes scuffing softly on the cobbles. ‘Just what my mother used to say….’

Sauntering past in the other direction, happily linked on the arm of her lover, Susie turned and very obviously watched the old man, as he clattered into the doorway of the newsagent and in under the jangling bell. She was having one of those days when she saw everything: the curve of his lean jaw above the twist of his scarf and his unfastened coat; the pallor of his cheeks; the way his hair, obviously unbrushed today, twisted affectionately at the back of his head. Absently, she wondered if he had eaten yet this morning.

‘Wait a minute, Alice, will you?’ she queried, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. She turned and followed the man into the shop, aware that she was being even odder than usual today. If everyone indulged their hunches, the world would be a peculiar place….it was peculiar enough, and she hardly needed to draw attention to herself, but still.

Susie took in the slightly dusty air, the rack of newspapers and the colourful array of crisps packets and fizzy bottles near the exit. But her attention was focussed on the old man, carefully clutching a small carton of milk and rooting in his pockets for change, while the shop-keeper waited, watching a screen pinned somewhere overhead. Absently he took the pound coin held aloft in icy fingers and proffered change. The old man’s head was bent slightly forward, as if the weight of the world had warped it. Susie approached the till.

‘Are you all right?’

The old man blinked myopically.

‘Yes, thank you’ he answered, slowly and with great dignity. ‘I’m fine, thank you, young lady.’

Susie wanted to ask him if he had had breakfast, if he was eating properly. She had an absurd longing to go round to his place and make a pot of soup, switch on the radio and fill his kitchen with the clatter of domestic noise, but instead, she just smiled and said, ‘That’s fine, then. Take care of yourself.’

‘The name’s Thomas, and I live up there – …’ he pointed absently, ‘Up the hill a bit. I like to come out for my morning walk every morning. My sister tells me it does me good, though I sometimes wonder.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Ena takes care of me.’

‘I’m very glad.’ Impulsively she gave the old man’s hand a squeeze. ‘I’ll see you again.’

 

Diego Velazquez 'An Old Woman Cooking Eggs'
Diego Velazquez ‘An Old Woman Cooking Eggs’

 

 

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

September 26, 2014

Bernie Leslie

, , , , , , , , , 8 Comments

Bernie Leslie
Bernie Leslie

 

Today I am pleased to feature Bernadette Leslie. Bernie Leslie is a Scottish writer who was born with Cerebral Palsy. She’s an ex-Parasports athlete who represented Scotland and Great Britain, winning a bronze medal with GB in the 2006 Boccia World Championships. She’s writing her first novel. In her spare time, she loves going to see her favourite football team play and loves animals.

In her blog, ‘The Wheel Perspective’, Bernie shares news and insights of her life. She is a passionate supporter of ‘Riding for the Disabled’ with whom she rides regularly.

 

Welcome, Bernie, and thanks for featuring today. I know that we will be sharing more posts, but, first, I would be really interested to learn about your experiences with Equus. How did you became so interested and involved with horses and their language?

It all started with my mum actually! A year ago, she read an article in the September 2013 issue of Oprah and when she finished reading it, she came through and she said: “There is an incredible article about horses this month and I think you would love to read it.” Somehow it struck a chord with me. Martha Beck, a life coach, was describing the Equus experience of a client who worked with Koelle Simpson, equine trainer/life coach, to resolve the issues that were plaguing her.

Strangely enough, the very next day, Mum and I were visiting some relatives’ graves. Now there had always been a horse in the next field, and I’d always wanted to say hello, but never could because it’d mean my electric wheelchair would be trudging through grass and leaving a right mess everywhere, not to mention getting stuck if it’d been raining.

I need to give kudos to the local council for this one because I noticed they had made a path up to the fence and I decided to see if the horse would come over. Thankfully she did and it was really through her that I began to see for myself just how horses perceive not only ourselves, but how we feel too. That started a journey of discovering everything I could find out about horses!

 

What teaches you about spiritual truths?

Equus is a non-verbal language of horses in which these amazing animals — so sensitive that they feel the tiniest of things landing on them — let us human beings know how they’re feeling via their body language, which is interesting, because thousands of years ago, our ancestors were known to communicate through body language, until other forms of languages developed and took its place — the ones we know today as written and spoken languages.

Spiritually, Equus has been invaluable to me. I was starting to figure out, through being with horses, that negative influences were having far too much influence over what I was doing. I felt under increasing pressure, and forgot about how important it was to take care of myself and return myself to a blissful, peaceful place. Equus teaches me what leadership really means and how to remain centred when others try to drag you down.

Horses have helped me do this and now I feel more confident that I am taking the right path — horses and writing are a winning combination, for me at least!

Thanks so much, Bernie. It is so interesting to discover that horses have a language and that we can learn to communicate with them through it. All the best with your writing and your riding!

Lotus_india_cropped

 

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

June 18, 2014

Frances Kay

, , , , , , , , , , , 9 Comments

Today I am delighted to introduce Frances Kay, a writer and children’s playwright.  I first met up with Frances (‘Fan’) on a lively on-line writers’ forum.  Apparently, she agreed to read my own book after noticing that I had included the word “sossidges” in a comment to a mutual friend.  We swapped reads, and since then, have kept in touch.  Fan’s writing is very strong, eerily atmospheric and convincing, threaded through with sardonic wit and humour.  Fan’s first book,  MICKA was published in 2010 by Picador and won 100% positive reviews from The Guardian, The Times and the Financial Times, as well as being featured on BBC radio 4’s programme ‘A Good Read’.  Her second novel, DOLLYWAGGLERS, has recently been published by Tenebris Books.

Welcome, Frances. Can you tell me a little about what inspired you to write the ‘Dollywagglers’?

A long time love of dystopian literature, ever since I read ‘1984’ when I was fifteen.  Orwell was my idol – a  principled, disillusioned man with a love of England and the English language.  I was especially taken with Orwell ‘s uncompromising vision of a nightmare future when I learned that he was fatally ill with TB as he wrote it, and died soon after it was published.

I wanted to express my disappointment, my anger and my love for England in this story, which I could only do from an exile’s perspective (I was living in Ireland when I wrote it), and when I was diagnosed in 2012 with an inoperable tumour, I felt reckless and emboldened to write my truth, even if it is hard to read.  Parts of it were hard to write.

Any tips for developing a writing habit? Do you write every day or do you prefer to write when you are in the mood?

For a person who makes their living from writing, I’m a very bad example!  I either need a commissioning theatre company breathing down my neck, or I have to wake up at seven and feel the desperate urge to get to my computer.  I write in bursts, in a trance state.  Of course, editing and improving can be done less breathlessly!

You call DOLLYWAGGLERS a dystopia, filled with refreshing anger and dark, bitter humour. What attracts you to writing dark fiction?

We all have a shadow side that needs to come out and play.  I write plays for children and young people, and they deserve hope and optimism, but when I write for adults, I can let loose my darker self – and she has a field day.  I also enjoy reading this kind of fiction, if it is well written.  I’m thinking now of books like Helen Dunmore’s ‘A Spell in Winter’ – she’s a terrific writer.

What was the publishing process like for you?

Two publishers so far, and they could not have been more different.  Picador is an imprint of Macmillan, and being accepted by this huge concern with its glamorous reputation was such an honour, I was ready to say yes to anything.  They have a publicity and sales machine, so the process of getting my book ready for publication involved me saying yes to a cover I didn’t like, that I felt did not reflect the story within.  After MICKA was published, I felt rather neglected.  The next book by Picador followed mine a week later, and it was Emma Donohue’s ‘Room’.  The excitement around that book and the Booker shortlisting, reinforced my feeling of being suddenly orphaned.  No one from my publishers came to the launch event I set up, and I had to suggest to Picador they enter my book for the McKitterick Prize [it was the runner up].

Tenebris Books is another kettle of fish entirely.  DOLLYWAGGLERS is the first one of this new imprint of Grimbold Books to be published, and they went to huge efforts to help me launch it with a splash.  They asked for my input with the cover, and Ken Dawson, their designer, transformed a photo I gave them of two seedy puppets on Southwold beach into a sleazy, brooding cover that exactly captures the spirit of the book – I love it.  They also provided champagne for the launch in London, and Zoe Harris, my editor, flew over with her husband from Norway, and made a fabulous speech at our launch.  All the production team was there.  I felt so loved!  Even more importantly, Zoe and Sammy [of Grimbold Books] love the book with a passion, and our editing was done painlessly and collaboratively.  They even paid an advance – and that is a rare thing, these days.  I hope they will publish my next book.

And your future plans? 

My life expectancy, though uncertain, is, I am assured, at least ten years.  If I can publish another three novels, I will feel completely fulfilled.  I want to leave something my children and grandchildren can read when they are older; I’ll still be a presence in their lives.  I’m working on a sequel to DOLLYWAGGLERS; I felt there was a lot more story to explore.  And I’m still writing plays for young people.  Plenty more ideas in my head!

Thanks for inviting me on your blog, Fran.  I’ll be happy to have you as a guest on mine, as I love your book ‘Trapped’, which has a wonderfully poignant, evocative cover.

Thank you too, Frances.  It has been such a pleasure to host you today.  I hope all your publishing dreams come true.

Frances Kay, author
Frances Kay, author

 

 

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

May 5, 2014

Loxodonta

, , , , , , , 1 Comment

 Loxodonta

An aged bull was rubbing his back lazily against the truck of a broad acacia tree. Beneath its prickly branches, shards of deep shadow were welcome in the heat of midday. The red sandy earth beneath his feet was bright and baking, hot enough to cook a body. From the lone male, a breath escaped in long, laboured sighs of several minutes. His ribs, clearly visible through his skin, lifted and fell gently. Eyes seemingly vacant, he scanned the horizon and counted.

One, two, three men and a jeep found him as he was slumbering, rocking quietly to stay on his feet. He was such a venerable age that his long tusks swept forward in long, low arches that almost touched at the fore, and which emphasised the thinness of the head beneath. The approaching men, who smelled bad from walking and hunting in the heat, surrounded the bull without a word, creeping in slowly and peacefully.

“He’s an old fellow. Makes our job easier, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. At least he’s had a life. How old?”

“Dunno. Probably near ninety, from the look of his feet and his tusks. Check out the tears on his ears, too. Looks like we’re doing him a favour.”

One bullet was enough. The shot was louder in the shade and the report shocked dazed birds out of the trees. Their weapon was meant for much tougher prey than this animal, who slipped down, sank and keeled over almost without a sound. There was no hurry and they waited, lighting cigarettes. Five minutes later they figured he was dead. Ten minutes after that, two great tusks were lying covered in the jeep, the body of the last elephant left to decay where it lay.

This band of men was not to blame for extinguishing the flame. All slow-moving guardians of the savannah had been shifted out of the way with the advance of suburban Africa. The savage yielded to the tame. Wild creatures incapable of domestication were judged pests and routinely cleared off land needed for agriculture, away from fish ponds. Precious wet patches and shimmering marshes were reclaimed for growing food and the forests harvested for wood. Bulky elephants made easy targets for Russian-style semi-automatic machine guns. Picked off singly, or butchered in families as they grazed, washed or licked salt from secret deposits, they gradually disappeared.

Their ivory was shipped to the east to make aphrodisiacs and potions that sold for thousands of dollars in the Asian markets. The West, too, with its hunting parties and exclusive safari deals had a hand in the demise of Loxodonta. Skeletons were scavenged and scoured to make talismans and powders. With the demise of the elephants – though no-one cared enough to notice at first – native trees, matured to hardiness over thousands of years gradually thinned out and disappeared, like the hair on an old man’s head. Gradually, the savannah became a bare expanse of sand, with rocky outcrops and low-lying shrubs clinging to the edges of housing developments. Losses were gradual, unseen until dust kicked up everywhere because the trees were not there to hold it down. With their vast, extending root systems, trees were like the tap in the sink, keeping the water in the soil. Without them, and without the elephants to partner them, the stuff of life gradually disappeared, leaving a giant dustbowl on the World’s largest continent.

Acacia became endangered, and although it was monitored for growth and germination success, lab results were stunted and inconclusive….not enough could be done, quickly, to save the species, so scientists, who had been flown from Zurich and Amsterdam and America to help with the problem, worried. From their purpose- built labs they sent out distress signals around the planet, hoping to find a cure.

On the fringes, other watchers waited, just as they always had. Men and boys at the gates – the gardener who clipped the bushes into shape and kept down the termites with creosote and sprays of sparkling water from a coiling hose; the houseboy who swept aside the dust every morning and afternoon and straightened the mats – knew that the world flattened up here would soon crumble into powder. The glass would shatter and the bricks would bake.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

February 11, 2014

In Defence of Escapism

, , , , , , , , , 3 Comments

In defence of escapism.

Darcy sat gazing out of the window, marvelling at the frosted snowflakes gently blowing out of the sky. Outside, the world was wrapped in a fresh mantle of clean, cold snow. Ensconced in the warmth of the café, gently cradling a piping hot mocha, she could dream of Jamie, savouring the taste of her double chocolate, almond and cranberry muffin with frosted pink rose scented glaze…..

I have read a lot of chic lit – that brand of rather uniquely sexist literature that fascionistas decry because they say it only appeals to the lazy instincts of womankind. Woman meets man, loses man, finds him again; or woman loses man, finds herself, finds a better man; we are prone to scoffing at such easy, soft options for reading, as if by not reading Proust, or the latest discoveries unearthed within the pages of ‘Archaeology Now’, we are letting down the side, betraying the freedoms for which our older sisters and mothers fought so hard.

But what if the lot of women is already hard? What if the first thing woman does when she rises at seven, is to put away the laundry, open the curtains and make the beds? What if, when she reaches the kitchen and is within hailing distance of her breakfast, the first thing she sees is the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink? There is not much room there, for escapism, and precious little to look forward to, unless, of course, she is that delightful fiction of mankind, the woman who enjoys cleaning and clearing, and finds daily menus a delightful challenge. Sometimes, I would like to feel like that, but mostly, I fail miserably.

There are times when our daily worries and preoccupations become a bit heavy, like a bit of homemade wholemeal (try saying that in a hurry) bread that stubbornly refuses to rise. There are times when futility stands her ground and mocks. And there are times when sheer loneliness can become a bit overpowering. Held down by such feelings, chic lit, gentle escapism, and happy fluffy dreams are a vital escape, allowing the mind to lift, and then find solutions, strength and new resolve. If Alice in her cupcake shop can tell the CEO of a large multi-national corporation that she is not interested in promotion, then I can find the steely resolve I need, too, to withstand long periods of soul destroying silence, failures in communication and the demands that everyone makes on my time.

And if I am thinking nice thoughts about cuddly people, there is just a chance that, in that gentle breathing space, creative solutions will have a chance to find me. Yes, I deserve to be creative, to dream and to have fun. If the best place for that is between the pages of a too-big book, then so be it.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

February 5, 2014

Working From Home

, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Working from home

She’s hounding me again. The phone has rung five times in the last six hours so I just don’t answer when it rings. It could be anyone, couldn’t it? Mum, or my sister saying, “How are you?” It could be my agent saying, “Cheerio, I’m off to the States for two years, see you soon” or my husband reminding me not to cook this evening as it is his birthday and we are supposed to be going out for something to eat later. But I don’t answer, because I know I didn’t promise to visit the hospital this afternoon. Between three and five she gets no visitors and would like me to pop in to see her, hardly able to breathe, on the second floor of the high dependency respiratory ward. Her bed takes about twenty-five minutes to locate within the north wing of the hospital, after spending maybe forty minutes finding a parking space outside on the vast tarmac complex and actually getting to the main entrance of the building. It’s about forty minutes driving from here to our new, spankingly expensive citizens’ hospital on the outskirts of the city, all white and faceless like a starchy apron daring anyone to disapprove. With metered parking that costs so much, I bet the hospital uses that income stream to service interest payments. Impressive queues of people wait patiently at the pay boxes jingling change in their hands to slot in before they can leave, trapped into shelling out money for jam, as Mum would say.

Anyway, there is nothing I can do. I can hardly hear Ellie on the phone, with her thick vowels, trapped inside a bad reception space with no privacy, no telly and no-one else to talk to. I have to be at home by three-thirty most afternoons, which is why I know I didn’t promise to visit Ellie at the hospital. I can’t be in two places at once, can I? Though God knows, that would be a handy trick. As it is, I have spent most of this morning passing over my plastic card for presents for my daughter’s school friends – it is party season – or looking for “thank you” cards and stamps to stick on letters to Australia.

I really have to get down to some more writing, or else my agent is going to seriously question the wisdom of taking me on as a client. What kind of writer manages only three short books in three years? I have a host of smaller pieces that could do with being finished. I like my work and so, I count myself lucky. At long last, I have reached a compromise with working that works for me. I work from home, I can please myself. Of course, everyone imagines I am available to do the weekly shopping, to organise the social calendar, to cook and clean and to run thither and hither collecting, sorting, washing and tidying everything I can get my hands on. I wish that there was room to just write. If anyone else expects me to do anything else, I shall run screaming along the High Street. Or I would, if it weren’t so cold. Fancy being a stay at home mum with a career? Take my advice and get an office so that you are out. Out all day. It’s the only way. People take you seriously when you are out all day. Best way to be.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

January 29, 2014

Changing Times Part 1

, , , , 1 Comment

Changing Times part 1

Here was only soft, muffled silence. Elsewhere, a million miles away, she knew a shining sun hung suspended in a vast, clear sky of shifting blues. She hoped faithfully to see the stars again, the Plough, Andromeda and Great Cygnus. Meanwhile, Earth waited, wrapped in deep grey, protective cloud beyond which playful starlight hung back out of sight with the myths. Naturally, it would clear, but we had no idea when.

Months ago all the strangeness started: large moths in July that clung on everywhere silently filling and occupying all the spaces from the ground up, so that playful schemes for summer were overlooked: the mock fishing parties, the state-sponsored harvests, the tree planting jamborees. Since all-in-one pellets had been lab-perfected, people had not worried so much at the soil, had not forced food from it. Communal gardens wilted in the grey heat, un-watered and thoughtlessly trodden over.

Many of the old, slow, ways were bypassed in an age when constant technical advancements seemed to promise so much. The earth couldn’t help being old-fashioned, though our few impatient efforts yielded little. There was small patience and no faith whatsoever, in the halls of our technocrats. The white coats clung ferociously to their ascendancy, but for how much longer?

As she slowly and patiently got out of bed that morning, Edith puffed a little, straightened her back and grimaced as she felt the itchy blanket of small aches and pains begin their accustomed jig over her joints. Must ease up on the late nights, be a good girl, she thought carelessly, as she cranked up her day. Creeping downstairs in shabby gown and slippers, clutching a deliberate fondness for those plodding, careful things of her youth which she understood marked her as eccentric, Edith used a fifth of her daily allowance of drinking water to make a pot of tea, partnering the nondescript china with a stained tea cosy. Though plain and small, the small brown piece was her favourite, one of the few pleasing and useful items she had inherited from her mother. The gentle roundness cradled exactly in her hand, like a warm, live thing.

This morning, as every morning, there was a calm slowness in the small rituals of breakfasting. The early air breathed balm through her kitchen windows. Many times she had been urged to leave the shabby, peeling old house, which was very gently falling apart, sliding peaceful into decay. But Edith would have missed the sweeps of wind under the grey sky, the blowing clouds that welcomed her each morning at the kitchen window. She had remained in this house for over sixty years, had moved back in permanently after her mother had gone over to the other side in 2071, and in the midst of the everyday tasks of cooking, cleaning, washing and baking, she would glance up and grin at the changes outside, the colours that clung on within the seeping seasons which, despite the grey, slipped innocently forward with a faith that Edith always found moving.

When her husband and only son had still been alive, the small family had kept together here. Before Harold had passed on (they had said it was “cumulative toxicity” a diagnosis she thought was surprisingly honest) he had worked all across Europe. He was lucky, since his work carried with it options to travel on business all over, from Paris to Moscow, and Edith had sometimes travelled with him. She cherished vivid, child-like memories of the grand, old government charter planes, which were equipped to take those able to pay (or who called in favours) away from The Protectorates. Harold, with his responsibility for seeing through the effective administration of fuel coupons, was able to secure occasional holiday flights to Madagascar or Tunis, where the sky had then still shown through as glimmers of patchy blue and shards of yellow.

That had been when Edith was in the first flush of her married life, a fresh and beautiful wife of twenty-six. Now she had walked so far into her dotage, there was great comfort in knowing that her happy days were safely in her past, for her to recall as she wished. With quiet gleaming pride, she was aware that she was almost entirely beyond the reach of the authorities, simply because she was “pushing” ninety. An image of herself dressed in a combat outfit, brandishing her broom (the nearest thing she possessed to an “offensive weapon” and therefore liable to be confiscated by the Civilian Authority) came to mind and she chortled, a deep, happy chuckle. Although this broom of hers was so ancient that the bristles were ragged, falling out, and the shaft was pulling away at its moorings, Edith would not be persuaded to part with it even for one of the “nice new ones” being offered down at the Exchange. No doubt some covetous busybody was anxious to get their hands on the wonderful wooden handle and top, but they weren’t having it, not yet. In her faded slippers Edith stepped silently about, dancing a small dance of freedom.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

December 10, 2013

Telling the truth

, , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Telling the truth

People think I am very funny, because I tell the truth. “Oh, how drole, how very amusing!” they chortle, trying not to choke on their tea, their coffee or their biscuit crumbs. “However do you manage?” Well, it’s easy, really. I say what everyone is thinking. I blurt out the “one stupid question” that no-one else wants to ask, for fear of looking idiotic. All things considered, I have little to lose, so I think of truth telling as my party piece instead: my secret weapon.

It was dad who started me thinking about this. During a visit to him abroad, as he was happily relating tales of his adventures, he confessed that it could be very tricky using humour to brighten the mood at a dinner party. Humour, it turns out, is a remarkably local affair – I may understand irony, a family joke, but the neighbours will probably consider the same joke too forward and rather rude. What might be amusing to the French ambassador sitting on dad’s right, may deeply embarrass the Lithuanian consul seated on his left…difficulties with language and the communication of small subtleties can proliferate alarmingly.

“So, what do you do about that?” I asked, wonderingly.

“Well, you see, Frannie, it’s easy….” He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye… “I just tell a story against myself. It could be anything…I might have told the cook I wanted salad for supper, not salami; or I might have dropped my glass of wine at an evening function. Whatever it is, I just make it sound funny and everyone laughs. We are all very entertained if the joke is on me, and my problem is solved. No more international misunderstandings. Very important, you see….”

While I marvelled at my father’s dedication to his job, even to the extent of putting himself forward so that everyone might laugh at his antics, I have learned that gentle humour is indeed a wonderful way to disarm unkindness, to steal a small advantage or to entertain our friends. If we make ourselves look a bit daft, they feel more comfortable telling us about their mistakes too. “Do you know, that yesterday, in my haste to get ready, I put my spectacles in the towel cupboard? I had gone in there to get a bath towel and took off my glasses ….I couldn’t see to find them again of course, and it took twenty minutes of padding about before I remembered….”

In my experience this sort of story always makes us feel better than merely gossiping, or telling the truth the way we usually do, with an earnest expression which we hope will soften the blow. There are times when “painful” truths are best left alone. Who wants to cause of unhappiness? Not me.

It was my father I thought of, when I had the wonderful idea to take twenty years of hard knocks and turn them into funny stories. At last, I realised, I could gleam something worthwhile from what I used to think of as my wasted years, by telling the truth and laughing about it. Hooray!

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr