I’m so happy to have been a part of *The Generations Anthology* edited and published by The Open University WriteClub. It’s a wonderful mix of short stories, essays, poems, photos and other ‘odds and ends’. Most importantly, all proceeds will got to the Alzheimer’s Society. It’s an illness that has touched many of us in some way. You can find out more about Alzheimer’s Society here
https://www.alzheimers.org.uk/ My contribution is a short story entitled ‘Floursacks to Petticoats’ and you can buy the Kindle version on the link below. If you’re adverse to technology, or just prefer the smell of paper, hold tight for the printed version coming soon! It’s my first official publication so if you’re against giving money to support wonderful causes, do it to support me đ ‘The amount of material generated for this project could have filled a library, and so we are sharing a snapshot of brilliance, brought to the table, by a diverse, cross-generational group of unlike-minded individuals, who were willing to drop their pearls in an ocean of unease, and by doing so, explore what each generation has in common’ (Editor)
It’s nice to be back! I’m still writing.
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Hello, It’s nice to be back to WordPress. It has been a while!
Since then I’ve finished my second Creative Writing module with The Open University and now I’m on to my final module of the Open Hons Degree – ‘Why is Religion Controversial’. It’s engrossing and fascinating but very heavy and sucking my small tank of spare time dry! The first section of the course is about controversial figures in religion. I’ve been reading about Regina Jonas, the first female rabbi to be ordained, in Berlin 1936. It’s an extraordinary tale of a woman who defied tradition and was ordained. What’s even more interesting about her story is that it was buried without trace until the 1980s, when female historians and rabbis began to investigate and speak about her again.
If you fancy reading more, check this link out
https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/jonas-regina
Writing-wise, I am close to finishing the first draft of my novella…and when I say close I mean about 30,000 words away. I haven’t written a word on that project since August though. I am working away to make a space for it in December.
Last weekend I attended a writer’s retreat, part of the Literature Festival of Bristol and enjoyed talks from industry professionals, and writers Gareth Powell, Alice jolly & Amy Morse from Learn to Love Your Words. It was a very inspiring and informative day.
I’ve also submitted stories for two anthologies and await further instruction!
And that’s it! Just a little hello and how are ya. Looking forward to catching up on all the reading here!
Loss
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âAh, times are changing, that’s for sure. A farmer can’t make a living anymore. If it wasn’t for the grants, we’d be down in the town below, living like animals in a block of flats. She went down there, yâknow. She set herself up down in the town. She said couldn’t stick the mountain nâmore. Didnât want another hard Winter, she said. By God, she didnât have to worry. It wasn’t even three months after when she got sick. Me? I’ll die up here, and I’ll die happyâ
He was picking dandelion leaves that were growing in tufts along the cement path. One hand was picking, the other holding his stick and the bag. Three ragged farm dogs were around his knees, annoying him. He waved his stick and yelled at them. They backed away a little, enough so they could still watch his every move. He was their God.
âI’m picking these, now, for the hens. They don’t have a bad life at all. But they’re not free range, are they? Not politically correctâ
He chuckled to himself as he continued. I coughed awkwardly.
âAre they not? Well, I suppose they’re up there in that dark loft, so technically, theyâre not freeâ
He stood upright and looked at me. He had a hard face with small eyes and deep dry lines. He had the type of face that had felt the cold and wind all itâs life.
âBut sher, it’s a big loft and they’re not shut in. They can sit there, in the fresh air looking down on the yard, with their handpicked dandelions, can’t they? It’s not a bad life at allâ
He shook his head.
âIt’s the likes of these big foreign supermarkets coming over here and breeding their deformed chickens in big warehouses with no light; theyâre the ones that are causing all the problemsâ
We both turned outwards towards the mountain gorge, looking at the majesty in front of us in silence. Iâm sure we were both contemplating how the world was changing, and how we never wanted to leave this place.
A loud howl came from behind. We both turned to see. A bony cow was making her way down the narrow village lane. She investigated every doorway and window along the way, bellowing and grunting as she went. When she reached the opening where we were, she stopped. She roared again; she was upset. Moving her head up and down, bucking at the air, I watched her massive udders shake from side to side.
âAaaah, haha, there she is!â
âYah yahâ, he roared, as he waved his stick in the air.
She responded with a long agonising cry.
âWhat’s wrong with her?â
I asked with the hardest tone I could find in me. After seeing him skin a wild boar with his son the night before, surely I could handle a sad cow.
âShe’s looking for her calf. Itâs up there, in the top barn – hand-fed twice a day by my very self. It has a gammy leg, that one, but itâs not a bad life for it. The old cow there is protesting, but she’ll be fine after a day or two of milking. Back to normalâ
I continued looking out onto the panorama in front of me.
âShe’s wandering around the village looking for it. You can’t get more free range than that now, can you?â
He was chuckling again, his shoulders bobbing up and down. He steadied himself with the stick and put it against the fence.
âRight, a few more of these for the hens before I drive cows down to the bottom fieldâ
As I walked away, I watched the distraught cow walk slowly, still crying, still bucking in anguish, up towards her field. As she entered, I watched some other cows come to greet her. They understood her loss.
Opus 22 – A Rhapsody of Short Fiction
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OPUS 22: A RHAPSODY OF SHORT FICTION – STORIES BY TWENTY-TWO NEW AUTHORS by Melius Scripto Press
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
âA short story is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger.â Stephen King
Opus22 is an original anthology from the newly formed Melius Scripto Press, a small publisher born out of an International community of both experienced and emerging authors and editors. Itâs an eclectic collection of stories, across genres and styles, with a common theme. The collection comprises of 22 stories. Each one is about or mentions the theme Piano.
From reminisiscence and regret to genuine horror this collection has been thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. I wonât review each story but my personal favorites and worthy of mentioning are
The poetic prose of Akira Fuyunoâs Chocolate Soup.
The Dystopian fantasy of Wayne Meyerâs Sonnet of the New Dawn.
The dry satire of Michelle Fresonâs domestic noir, The Final Supper
The engrossing depths of Lazarus Grayâs The End of Love
The vivid and shocking imagery of Deacon Grayâs Requiem for a Liar
Despite choosing the above stories, I can honestly say I enjoyed every single one, despite length and genre. Some are steeped in nostalgia and romance, others are traditionally crafted in their genre. If youâre a reader that enjoys anthologies, youâre going to love Opus22.
Tea & Apathy
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A figure emerged from under the streetlight. It was Mary Murphy, and she jumped over the wall at the side of the church. She knew exactly where the wheelbarrow was in the dark. The wheels squeaked and whistled as she pushed it into motion.
Sidling around the back of the church she made her way to the big wooden door. With her hands on her hips, she smacked her lips and shook her head as she looked down at the black mass at her feet.
âLord save us allâ
She fastened the untied shoelace and banged his foot back onto the ground with force.
âYouâre nothinâ but a drunken feckerâ
Bending down to grab his armpits she pulled with all her might. Once she had him half-way up she realised sheâd forgotten to put the wheelbarrow in place.
âJesus Christ, almighty tonightâ
She let him drop with a thud. A mixture of rage and pleasure ran through her. She hoped heâd bruise!
At the second attempt, he fell into the wheelbarrow when she let go. He lay on his back with his knees bent upright, and his head hanging off the other side. He groaned. Coming to life for a moment he looked up and smiled broadly at her!
âAh Mary, my guardian angel, leave me here for another hour. Itâll be grandâ
She bit her tongue for fear of what might come out of her mouth. Pulling both handles up to assess the weight, she took a deep breath and sidled back around the church. Sheâd throw him onto the sofa sheâd moved in there so he could sleep it off.
The wheelbarrow back in its place, she watched the village blink; lights in the houses came on. As the Winter’s morning rose, she strode through the church slowly, basking in its glory, and checking everything was in order for the ceremony. Looking up at one of the stations of the cross, she thought she caught the eye of Jesus. She stopped and turned to the painting. What was he telling her? He was suffering. But he was suffering in the name of God. She raised her head defiantly, glaring at the door behind the altar.
The Show Must Go On!
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âUp and at them Father! Your congregation will be here in thirty minutes to hear the word of the lordâ
She walked over to where the long green and white robes hung and rubbed her hands slowly down the course fabric.
âWould you like a cup of tea, Father?â
He rolled over and groaned.
âItâs all in the name of our Lord, Father. Iâll make you a nice cup of tea and weâll get you up and into your robesâ
âWhy do I do this, Mary?â
âI ask myself that all the time Father! Why do you insist on getting yourself into such states on a Saturday night when you have a mass on Sunday. These Saturday weddings are no good for you at all, strutting your stuff down at the Sands Hotel. Free Whisky for the priest, no doubtâ
He looked up sheepishly. His face was a grizzly shadow, shattered with fatigue and swollen with the alcohol.
âNo, Mary, I mean this-this-the mass, the ceremony. Why do I do it?â
She turned around instantly and glared at him. Walking towards him quickly, she bent over where he sat on the sofa, clenching her fists but hiding them behind her. Maryâs cheeks flushed and spit escaped in little darts onto her chin as she tried to compose herself.
âYou selfish b-b – Ah Father!!!â
âMary, listen now, Mary.’
She stood upright with her hands on her hips, her eyes facing the door with her jaw to one side.
âNever mind me. Itâs the drink talking. What about that nice cup of tea you promised?â
The change in her face was quick, a little too quick for his liking. She walked over to kettle and began her own ceremony.
âAre you still off the sugar, Father? Or would you take a bit of brown?â
Short Book Review: The Miniaturist by Jesse Burton
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The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
The Dutch Golden Age of shipbuilding, import and export, and exotic explorations, was a dark time for some. A young bride arrives into the bustling City of Amsterdam, to live with her new wealthy Merchant husband, but doesnât get what she expected! Bored and alone she is gifted something that leads to one mystery after another. Is her future being told by a witch or is someone provoking her?
Itâs not a warm, romantic type of book despite similarities in plot with classics from The Brontes and Austen. It was slow to start but it didnât take long to be enthralled, not only by each complicated character but by all the subplots and entangled mysteries. It is a wonderfully dark story and has an air of magic realism that drew me in. At times I felt it was a little âpurpleâ but somehow this lended itself to the story.
I canât say the characters were credible in terms of real-life everyday people, but they were complicated, layered and mysterious. They all had a contradictory side and a rich history. For me, it worked. Maybe thatâs because the story itself dealt with real-life situations we might come across in our modern World. All of the characters were isolated from their society for one reason or another: each had a dark history at some level and the story brings them all together in one house. My favourite character was Marin. First seen as a purist who eats cold herrings for breakfast and doesnât indulge herself with unGodly things like sugar, we later see the real Marin, and the reader cannot help but both have sympathy and admiration for her and her lost potential.
For a first novel, I think itâs right up there. I look forward to reading more from Jesse Burton.
The angry ditch
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Thickety, prickly thorny ditch
Youâve been pruned for Spring.
Youâre angry now,
Leafless branches pointing upright,
violated by a metal monster
with no regard for
your joints nor early buds.
The moss on your strong base tries to
passify you. Soft like velvet
sotto voce âYou will have your dayâ
The ivy, dark and dry, winds
around you like a snake
âIâll give you lifeâ
But no! âIâm a hedgerow! I will grow!â
Thereâs lots of rain and sun, you know.
You will grow and bud and thicken green
Hawthorn, Bramble and ramblers seen
in full life, gushing and lushing.
You will reign supreme in your beauty.
Book Review: The Penguin Lessons by Tom Mitchell
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The Penguin Lessons by Tom Michell
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Tom Mitchell recounts his true and bizarre meeting of an adorable Penguin while traveling in Central America in his twenties. He stumbled across the only one left alive on a shore of oil slicken Penguins in Uruguay and manages to bring him back to the flat where he is staying. There’s a strong bond from the start. Under the regime of Eva PerĂłn with an imminent military coup, the penguin was smuggled through customs and into Argentina, back to the boarding school where Tom taught. Juan Salvador, the charming Penguin, manages to become the school mascot and everyone’s friend. He’s pampered and treasured by students and school staff alike.
The most enjoyable thing about this light hearted quirky tale is that it’s true. The formidable determination of Tom resulted in Juan Salvador living a very charmed life indeed! Here’s where the charm stops. There wasn’t enough story to go into such word count. It wasn’t a long story, and it wasn’t a profound story. I found myself flicking through three to four pages of a rugby match yawn-fest and then again with a scene where Tom and Juan meet the school’s housekeepers’s family. There were more than a few of these moments in the book. I think if they were shorter they could have been much funnier.
The book did include some interesting insight into the Argentinian society and political World of the seventies. The cover, the concept, and the cute little illustrations were as delightful as the tale itself but frankly, there were too many pages. Overall a light and entertaining story but I feel it lacked substance and had too many fillers.
Dreams of India
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Blasting horns and angry shouts unnerve me; men are scratching their balls and hocking on the path where I walk in my flip flops. My feet are filthy from the grime. There are fast colourful movements in my periphery. Even the colours feel volatile. Lepers wiggle their deformities in my eye line. One of them sits, waving his misfortune at me, at the foot of the steps that lead to the golden M. That’s where the privileged scoff their burgers. Another offers me a lucky charm.
âNo charge, No chargeâ, he cries in monotone as I speed up.
Keep your head down. Keep your head down. Donât catch anyoneâs eye.
This is beautiful India.
âOh youâve been to India tooâ, someone once said to me.
âIsnât it just the most beautiful place on earth? I remember passing a tea plantation, during a train journey. I watched the beautiful saris blow with the breeze while the women picked tea. It was a sight to beholdâ
They hadnât seen their hollow faces up close, nor their shadowed eyes.
Starving girls with other womenâs sleepy babies on their hips; hands out with their âsad facesâ on as they call.
âPlease, madaaaam, my baybee milkâ.
They gesture to their mouths with the tips of there fingers bunched together. What a paradox. They are hungry and they are sad, yet this automated act is for me to believe that they are hungry and sad. Later their owners will check in and count their takings.
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I had gotten to know two young girls on my first trip to Mumbai: Lakshmi and Pari. Every day I left the hostel and headed straight for the internet cafe, just minutes away from the Gate of India. After catching up with friends and letting my family know I was still OK, I usually took a stroll down to the gateway. Thatâs where I met the girls. They were sweet and I was very innocent. Pari was the eldest, maybe fourteen years old. Her hard eyes showed fear but she was street wise. I observed her when she thought I wasnât looking later on. With her hand on her hip, flicking her scarf around her shoulders like a pro, she fluttered her eyelids at tourists like she meant it. Her light skin was clean and blemish free, and she had the smile of a beauty. Lakshmi was different. She was still a little girl. Her frock told me so. Her dark ponytail was messy and low at the nape of her neck. The wisps from the sides clung to her smiling lips. She followed Pari in an obedient manner, always watching from the sidelines, mimicking her.
âMy name is Lakshmi, Laki for short, but for the tourists I am Luckyâ
This was always followed by a huge adorable grin. She told me this repeatedly, as if practicing the line. I was sure she had been given it by her teachers; she didnât have much English. I met them for a few days in a row. I gave them some money, just once, and invited them to come on a trip with me over to Elephant Island, ten minutes away in a ferry. They smiled at each other. They thought I was a rich fool. I think I was too.
After a few days of not seeing them they showed up one morning outside the internet cafe. Pari walked towards me as I hit the stinking street from the door of the internet cafe.
âBaby sister very sick. Please help.’
She gestured to her mouth.
âShe need milkâ
She put her hand out for money. I shook my head firmly told and them I wasnât giving them any cash. I continued to walk the daily route and the girls followed me imploring me, begging for help in such exaggerated tones I cringed.
âYou have money. My sister is sick. My sister needs milkâ
What if it was true? What can I do? Say no for the sake of 300 rupees?
I offered to buy milk for the baby so they walked me to the shop of their preference. The doorway dripped with small plastic packets, each containing a mouthful of paan. They streamed down like a pretty beaded curtain. I stepped in and found myself in a dark little hovel. The girls spoke to the man behind the counter. He nodded without looking up, and then reached up to take a tin of baby food from a shelf on high.
âNo, no, theees one, pleeeeaseâ
Pari was pointing to a bigger tin. The shopkeeper glared at me, his eyebrows tilted inwards, waiting for my response. I nodded. I heard Lakshmi giggle behind me, and then her groan after receiving a thump. As I handed over the money to him his lips narrowed as if he was holding back insults. I took the tin of food and handed it to Pari. Turning to walk out of the shop, I realised a small group had gathered at the door laughing, some scowling. Some were shaking their head in a disgust that I didnât understand. Me , a silent stressed disgrace, marched out past them with my head down. I felt ashamed. I wasnât ashamed that they had managed to trick me. I was ashamed that this was all they had. I never saw those girls again.
*****
Families are setting up homes around a tree on a pavement. Some have canvas and even a pot or pan. Toddlers with swollen bellies wander a little too far away. Their angry young mothers call them back from under their thick brows.
âAnd then we went on a cruise, the boat had a glass floor. The service was exceptional and the food was to die forâ
The food, to die for.
Â
Blooming Lovely
We are such late bloomers
Standing firm through all the seasons
through sabotage and reckoning
of self worth. We have learned
when the wind blows hard we sway
with it, letting the ready leaves fly;
Allowing ourselves to finally dance,
we are enjoying. We have earned.
We are such late bloomers
but when the blossoms open wide
we all nod knowlingly, because
it was worth the living, for
the lessons we have gained