I Refuse To Go Quietly!

F3 - Cycle 66 - @The Begetting of Wisdom

2012-02-06T16:02:00.001Z

It's been quite a while since I submitted anything to the varied themes suggested by the team at F3 (Flash Fiction Friday)

However, this week's meme was too good to pass up!

Using the words Forest, Fortress, Flying, Forever, and Brimstone the object of the exercise was to create a tale in 1,500 words, or less, along a theme of Swords, Sorcerers, Dungeons and Dragons.

The image (above) from a Moody Blues album came instantly to mind and sparked off a train of thought that morphed into the tale below; I hope you enjoy it, please feel free to leave comments!

....and now I'm off to hunt out said album and relive some fabulous prog-rock!

THE BEGETTING OF WISDOM

The flame shuddered in the unseen draught, casting dancing shadows across the dark curtains and tapestries. Mirandella caught the movement from the corners of her eyes but fought to keep her focus on the matter in hand. The glittering, molten metal hissed and bubbled as she took the ladle from Master Galbinus.

“Easy! Gently, my lady!” His ancient voiced rattled, echoing off the hard granite of the fortress tower, his breath a fog that danced upwards through the cold gloom.

His sigh of relief as Mirandella deftly cast the lead into the mould made her smile at her teacher and mentor.

“You have taught your apprentice well, sir,” she chided him. “See – it is done!”

Returning the ladle to the crucible she resisted the urge to rub at the reddened skin where the heat from the blistering metal had spattered and left its mark. Her calloused hands bore testament to the teaching and training she had acquired thus far; she counted each scar as proof of the skills she had attained.

It did not do well, though, to show them in public. Her father, the Lord Kiramir, would not countenance his beloved daughter being subjected to anything so unladylike; therefore she wisely kept her cuffs long and drawn down and her hands gloved whenever possible in his presence. Besides, it was not a great difficulty, for the ladies of the inner court were accustomed to such attire.

Now, Mirandella’s attention was caught by the long robes of Galbinus as he reached across and lifted the mould, dropping it into the dish of water, whose surface instantly stirred into something that roiled and bubbled, hissing like a thousand snakes and an odour that tainted the air with an acrid smell of brimstone.

Galbinus was something of a mystic, an enchanter, a sorcerer; his origin was uncertain and for that alone he was, to Mirandella, something of an enigma that must be pursued. As she sat back in her chair her eyes surveyed the shelves to one side, laden with jars and bottles and strange, other-worldly items that she could not begin to fathom.

Her teacher had mooted the need to restrain her curiosity but he had, on occasion, begun to tell her of strange lands and peoples and customs that lay far beyond the boundaries of Lord Kiramir’s domain; across seas and oceans and something that Galbinus had referred to as the Bridge of Time.

For hours Mirandella would have sat in fascination as her mysterious mentor regaled her with tales of heroes and battles, of huge cities with buildings so tall they scraped the very sky; where people talked across long distances as if they were but in the same room, of curious boxes that conjured up all manner of images and sounds.

Though there was much to wonder at, he had made her laugh with the notion of these strange people having to build machines that enabled them to fly though the air; she had mastered that art in early infancy, levitating slowly from her crib and flying to the rafters of her nursery and causing her nurse endless grief.

Now, though, Mirandella’s thoughts were interrupted as Galbinus approached the steaming bowl set before them. Carefully, the ancient one lifted the tongs and clasped the mould, wresting it from its bubbling repository and laid it carefully onto the table. He knocked away the two halves and a small object rolled free.

Mirandella watched in fascination as Galbinus lifted the artefact into the light for her closer inspection and she marvelled at its simple form.

“What is it?” she asked, turning it over and over in her hand. It bore no relation to anything she had seen before. Galbinus gently took the curious four-armed symbol from her, and held it aloft by its longest part.

“That, my lady, is something that men, through misunderstanding, ignorance and greed, have fought and died over for many, many years. In the lands I have told you about so many times, beyond these borders, beyond time itself, this symbol has great power. Riches cannot buy it, indeed it cannot be possessed; rather, I have heard it said, it possesses men.”

Mirandella looked at the curious object; like two rods, one long and one shorter, laid one atop the other at right-angles. She could not imagine why it had such power over men and her brow knotted in thought.

Galbinus glanced at her face in the flickering candle flame. Her innocence and purity, both present and inherited, had no concept of salvation or the need of it. Indeed, this land of Terrestria-Edensis, was blessed with such peace and plenty he wondered how it could ever change.

And yet, there was already a dark shadow at the edges of the realm. Beyond the endless forest a sense of malevolent evil, worse than the dragons of yore that had been vanquished long ago, crouched at the gates. Tales were already filtering through the streets, rumours and fearful wonderings were already beginning to blight the sleep of many.

Galbinus placed the cruciform metal into his young apprentice’s hand. He had heard that the sacrifice it symbolised, made once and for all and forever, also had the power to span the bridge of time and space; even into this garden of hitherto peace and serenity.

Mirandella fingered the strange talisman, her mind occupied with a million questions and Galbinus sat uneasily in his chair.

So, it had begun.

A Burning Issue?

2012-01-31T11:52:00.001Z

The word 'Kindle' used to mean "to set fire to; to ignite" - but in latter times we have become accustomed to recognising this word as the name of a proprietary electronic reader. (See also 'Nook', etc.)

The battle to mass-share the written word has come a long way from Caxton and his cohorts, with their variable printing presses, but is the current ease with which stories can be shared actually likely to see the demise of physical books?

I touched on this in another post, 'eRevolution? Or just Evolution? - and there were some interesting responses!

An item on BBC Breakfast News this morning (sorry, no link available as yet) discussed the idea that eBooks/readers might have a detrimental effect on the publishing industry, amongst other things. I was struck by the analogy drawn by one of the interviewees to consider the effect electronic publishing had made on the music industry! :-o

As an alternative format, eReaders offer portability (much better slipping one in your bag for your holiday rather than squeezing lots of books in) together with choice, availability and cost; there are many low-priced (or even, free!) stories out there!

On that option of choice - there are gems out there, but sometimes it can be like panning for gold!

The other revolution that ePublishing ushers in is the ease of bypassing the 'traditional' route for authors and avoiding agents and publishers. By their very nature, both of these filter out some of the dross, but as more and more would-be writers react to constant rejection (often without the constructive criticism that would enable them to hone their skills!) by opting to self publish, might the publishing houses also be hastening their own doom by being too picky?

I worked in a library for many years - believe me, there was some utter tosh I had to shelve, yet somehow each of them had caught a publisher's eye and at least made it into print. However, as with everything these days, the decision to offer a publishing contract seems to rely less on the merits of the writer's work and more on marketability!

I've known authors who have (metaphorically) jumped through hoops at the the insistence of editors, to re-write, re-write and re-write yet again - almost to the point where their book is almost unrecognisable from the original draft!

Is it any wonder, then, that many writers see the route to having more control of their 'baby' via self-publishing?

Going back to my opening statement about the definition of 'Kindle', ePublishing certainly seems to have ignited a debate about books and surely that's a good thing? ;-)

When the dust settles, perhaps we will be able to see more clearly how this eRevolution might affect the Smörgåsbord of the literary world - but as someone I know often says '...come the Revolution, or when the oil runs out....' paper-and-ink books will still be here!

Thursday @ 3 - 'HOLD THAT THOUGHT!'

2012-01-26T15:00:00.005Z

After what seems a very long time (over three months) I am pleased to announce the return of my 'Thursday@3' series. This started last Spring, with a story called 'Fat Lady Singing'

The premise of 'Thursday@3' is to post a piece of flash fiction with a connection to the number '3' - it could be three sentences or paragraphs; or something with a three-word title; or perhaps '3' in the title itself. Each piece has a word-count limit of 300 - the only exception for going over that is to craft a story with exactly 333 words. Each story is scheduled to appear on Thursdays, at 3.00pm (UK time) - thus, 'Thursday@3'!

For several months I dutifully rose to my self-imposed challenge, until life's events got in the way and so, mindful of that 'hiccup', this time around I will just say that the stories will appear regularly, maybe not every week, but certainly on a Thursday.

Without further ado (and with many thanks for encouragement, esp. from Cathy Olliffe-Webster ) here you go with this week's treat! At 333 words, because I really couldn't cut it any further from the 400+ original draft, this gives an odd twist to the notion of dealing with writer's block!

Comments, as usual, are life-blood to me so please leave your thoughts (good or bad) - or even better, perhaps, pen your own 'Thursday@3' story and share it with us! :-)

HOLD THAT THOUGHT

“Use your imagination. Trust me, your life is not interesting….” Funny what comes to mind at a time like this, as I find myself hanging out of a window on the 18th floor, fighting the urge to look down. The old adage of ‘Write what you know’ seems at odds with Kinsella’s quote and when writer’s block kicks in I find myself oscillating between both options, but today was perhaps not the best time to try a walk on the wild side.

As I pry open one eye I succumb to the view and for a Nano-second I’m intrigued by the sight of what looks like millions of ants; ants walking, running, some driving cars, buses weaving their way through armies of ants in their relentless commute. Of course, they aren’t really ants and that’s when vertigo challenges gravity and I snap my eyes shut.

“Just hang on, help’s coming!” Celia from the outer office is giving me a barely-concealed hysterical rundown of progress from the rescue service but I’m only half listening, my mind’s already occupied in a ‘they’ll never believe this' story being woven together in response to the blind panic that’s threatening me.

Leo’s starting to get really heavy, now. Leo; my some-time friend, mentor, bully and agent. He’d called in on a carefully engineered whim to see how the re-writes were going and decided to hector me as he leaned with his back against the window. Even as I vaulted forward I’d seen the look of resigned horror etch its way across his face, realising too late that the latch was disengaged.

His screams had died swiftly as the shock quickly blocked the oxygen to his brain and now he hangs like a limp ragdoll as I cling to his legs in counterbalance to his deadweight.

“Your life is not interesting…..” The quote echoes in my mind along with a descant of discordant sirens and I guess, if we survive this, Leo will take the credit for inspiration.

(The inspiration for this piece came from a link on Twitter, yesterday, to a quote by Canadian novelist W.P Kinsella: 'Use your imagination. Trust me, your lives are not interesting. Don’t write them down.' I sure used my imagination with this! ;-p)

W.P. KINSELLA)

'A COLD DAY IN PARADISE' - Steve Hamilton - #1 Off The Shelf 2012

2012-01-12T21:59:00.003Z

....and we're off!

The first book on my TBR list for the 2012 'OFF THE SHELF' challenge is Steve Hamilton's "A Cold Day In Paradise." I purchased this on a whim, touring a second-hand book store on a trip to the town of books, Hay-on-Wye. I was attracted by the cover and intrigued by the blurb - but it has sat on my shelf for too long, so I am delighted to have it as the beginning of this challenge!

A COLD DAY IN PARADISE - Steve Hamilton

This is the first in a series of novels based on a former policeman, Alex McKnight. Set in the town of Paradise, Michigan, and nearby Sault Ste. Marie (referred to as the 'Soo'), the action takes place in the hastening winter months and the storyline is as chilling as the falling temperatures!

Having been shot and seriously wounded in a confrontation with a psychotic killer named Maximillian Rose, with his partner dying at the scene, Alex Knight subsequently retires from the Detroit police force and returns to the Soo to manage a series of log-cabins his father had built and rented out to seasonal hunters.

As a sideline, he's persuaded to become a private detective but soon finds himself caught up in a web of murderous intrigue which has a strange connection to his own past. When the man who shot him and his former partner appears to be behind the slaying of a local bookmaker McKnight is perturbed, to say the least, especially since Rose is supposedly under lock and key serving a life sentence.

Facing hostility from the local police chief and still carrying one of the rounds that Rose pumped into his chest, McKnight is haunted by the thought that Rose may have escaped - who else would leave clues from the past, from the last conversation between a wounded policeman and his tormentor?

Steve Hamilton teases out the suspense with each successive chapter making this a true page-turner - and the icy backdrop keeps the action, and the reader, chilled to the bone!

Thankfully, I have the second book in the series, 'Winter Of The Wolfmoon' still awaiting me further down my TBR list - I'm looking forward to re-acquainting myself with Alex McKnight! :-)

Whittling down that pile...!

2012-01-03T14:24:00.001Z

So, the 2012 'Off The Shelf' (click the linky-icon, top left of page) challenge is off to a flying start!

From the list of books I drew up, I decided to start with Steve Hamilton's 'A Cold Day In Paradise

Now that the Festive season is behind us and life is returning to something akin to 'normal' I'm hoping to set aside time to progress onwards from Chapter One, which is as far as I've managed when dropping wearily into bed.....!

Anyway, with the metaphorical crack of the starting pistol I'm off and running....

......and I'll post a review later! ;-)

A Seasonal Salutation

2011-12-21T20:23:00.000Z

Merry Christmas, everyone - an old story in a new format:

The weather outside might not be quite so frightful here in the Midlands, where we've been predicted a 'wet' rather than 'white' Christmas, but the fire in front of me is so delightful anyway! In a few minutes' pre-festive pause (actually, 'babysitting' recuperating daughter after operation #3!) I realise I haven't had time to write anything for a while - my wish for 2012 will be the return of the literary muse!

Instead, I came across some MIKE HARDING (no relation!) snippets on YouTube and this one seemed appropriate to the season.

I've been a fan of this comedian for years (even before I was a 'Harding', strangely enough!) but he's a great musician and writer, too, so there are another couple of clips to amuse and entertain - sadly I can't find my favourite: 'Quasimodo Meets the Virgin Mary' - the tale of a school Nativity play that had me in hysterics (and the rest of the staff at the school where I used to work!)

Anyway - hope you get time amidst the hubbub and chaos to enjoy the season - MERRY CHRISTMAS!
:-)

.....and I'll leave it to MH (no, not MY MH!) to have the last word:

The List!

2011-12-15T21:17:00.000Z

Gearing up for the 2012 'Off The Shelf' reading challenge, I've now come up with the 30 books I'd like to read next year.

In no particular order (certainly, as I finish one there will be a brief pause before I select the next!) they are, predictably, mostly crime/thrillers, but a few 'wild-cards' have crept in, too!

Frank Peretti - Monster
Linwood Barclay - No Time For Goodbye
R.J. Ellory - City of Lies
Gill McNeil - Needles & Pearls
Frederick Forsyth - The Afghan
Agatha Christie - Peril At End House
Agathe Christie - Cards On The Table
Jack Higgins - Day Of Judgement
Jack Higgins - Dark Justice
Jack Higgins - The Thousand Faces Of Night
Alan Titchmarsh - Mr McGregor's Garden
Ben Brown - Sand Stealers
Alex Brennan - The Ghost Agent
Simon Kernick - A Good Day To Die
Kyle Mills - Burn Factor
Alex Scarrow - Last Light
Peter James - Dead Mans Grip
Peter James - Not Dead Enough
Mark Billingham - Bloodline
Mark Billingham - In The Dark
Ted Dekker - Bone Man's Daughter
Lee Child - Bad Luck And Trouble
Steve Alten - The Mayan Prophecy
Scott Marian - Lost Relic
Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil
Steve Hamilton - A Cold Day In Paradise
Steve Hamilton - Winter Of The Wolf Moon
Jeff Abbot - Panic
Michael Connelly - The Black Echo
Michael Connelly - The Black Ice

So there you have it - I'll try and do reviews as I go, wish me luck!

OFF THE SHELF 2012

2011-12-04T21:29:00.000Z

I decided I really needed to have some incentive to reduce the TBR pile, so I've decided to join this challenge!

I decided not to be silly and go overboard and settled for aiming at Level 3 - 'Making a dint' (30 books). Of course, I shall cheat - because there will be a couple of books that I've previously started and not finished, for one reason or another; although I shall start each from the beginning again, in line with the spirit of the challenge.

I'll do a review on each as I finish it - just to keep me accountable! In the next day or so I'll compile a list, although I can't guarantee I'll read them in strict order according to said list!

Anyway - the challenge NOW is to clear the decks before 01/01/2012.....

F3 - Cycle 57 - '57 Ways To Leave Your Lover'

2011-11-22T12:55:00.001Z

F3 (Flash Fiction Friday) has, apparently, had 57 different flash fiction challenges! I haven't been able to contribute to all of them but I couldn't miss this week's cue: a tale involving ketchup, courtesy of the association of the number '57' with a well known producer of said, rosey-toned condiment!

Anyway, the challenge was for a 1,000-word (max.) tale where ketchup was involved. Clocking in at exactly 1,000 (following some judicious pruning!) here's my offering for you to savour! And if you'd like to comment, that would be most appreciated :-)

57 Ways To Leave Your Lover

It started with a silly argument, as most great conflicts often do. A simple slight, a perceived lack of value, an unkind word; but really – had this all come to pass over a bottle of ketchup?

Myra looked at the empty side of the bed. It lay cold and uninviting, the covers still in place where she had smoothed them back, the pillow still plump and pristine, devoid of the rumpled hollow where his head should have lain.

Sitting up, knees drawn forward she rested back against the headboard, cradling the cup of warmth in her hand and sipped at her early morning tea. Dawn was still far off and night lingered, unending and sleepless. Her head ached, not a crashing pain but the tension of an oppressive compression as if her skull was trapped in a vice that insidious demons were slowly but surely tightening with each turn of the screw.

She closed her eyes and thought back to a few hours earlier, when her world was so different; blemished and a little out of kilter maybe, but going according to plan.

Daniel had been singing in the shower, off key as always but he knew all the words; Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan would be proud of this ‘modern major general’! She’d encouraged him to find something to do outside the home although she’d been a little surprised when he’d joined the local operatic society.

Downstairs, Myra had cooked his breakfast, a ‘full English’; a weekend treat, even though weekends didn’t really exist for them anymore. A week ‘end’ implied the end of a week of work, a time for rest and relaxation. Since Daniel had lost his job months ago, the days had rolled one into the other. Myra’s part-time job at the dental practice had helped but there was a big discrepancy between her meagre earnings and the bills that fell through the letter box with alarming frequency.

The usual morning pleasantries as he’d sat down at the kitchen table gave no hint of the furore which was to follow. She'd finished ladling out sausages, bacon and eggs on to the plate and set it down before him.

“Where’s the ketchup?” he'd asked, a little curtly, without even a simple word of thanks for the fact that Myra had risen early and cooked him a wonderful breakfast. She'd picked up the bottle, not six inches from his plate and set it in front of him.

Daniel had picked it up with his fingertips and peered at it as if examining something crude and distasteful.

“What is this?” he'd said slowly.

“Ketchup”, she'd replied.

“No, this is tomato sauce. Where’s the ketchup?”

She'd looked at the offending article he’d replaced on the table, then pushed away as if to distance himself from something unpleasant. The chubby plastic bottle with its white flip-top stood desultory and disregarded. True, it bore a different label from his favoured variety and it wasn’t the usual slender glass receptacle with its customary white screw cap but the contents were the same, mostly. It was red and it tasted of tomatoes at any rate. It was also a lot cheaper and in their current financial state it represented a valued economic cut to the weekly food bill.

The tantrum that ensued had taken Myra quite by surprise. As Daniel had leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the ground, she’d watched in disbelief as he swept aside his plate, accompanied by a tirade about her rubbing in the fact that he could no longer provide the standard of living they had once enjoyed and oh, how much she must enjoy seeing him reduced to seeking state benefits.

As he stormed out of the room she’d watched the congealed mess of egg yolk slowly making it’s way down the wall accompanied by greasy smears left by the bacon and sausages until it reached the mess of broken crockery lying on the floor.

She’d still been considering what had just happened when she’d heard the defiant stomping footsteps coming down the stairs and the echoing slam of the front door which announced Daniel’s departure.

That had been yesterday morning. Now, the house was curiously still and quiet; peaceful in a way that had not been the norm for quite a while. Myra had to confess, as the warmth of the tea bathed her belly in a sea of contentment, that she was really rather relieved he’d gone.

After months of speculation, she’d discovered the real reason for Daniel’s extra evenings out ‘rehearsing’ with the chorale society. Her name was Deanna and she sang soprano. Although Daniel was not the world’s best singer he was blessed with an impressive skill on the piano and spent hours as repetiteur, while the society rehearsed and refined their performance for the forthcoming production of ‘The Pirates of Penzance’.

For Myra, it had explained a lot of things, including the frequent times she’d ‘interrupted’ him answering yet another call about a last minute 'rehearsal' and the distance that had grown into a no-man’s-land between them in bed. This had apparently not been anything to do with his diminishing role as provider, as he’d intimated.

Now, as she surveyed the half empty wardrobe devoid of the bag full of clothes Daniel had taken, Myra was only a little disconsolate to realise that the ‘special’ breakfast over which she’d taken great pains had ended up in the garbage bin. She would have liked to have seen Daniel doubled up in agony on the toilet as the massive dose of laxatives she’d stirred into his coffee would have eventually taken effect. It had been only number one on her list of acts of retribution for his betrayal.

How odd that a simple matter of budget cutting, instead, would rid her of Daniel’s treachery. There must be 57 ways to leave your lover, she hummed to herself, smirking that Paul Simon would now be forever linked in her imagination to a bottle of sauce.

Bedside Books

2011-11-15T10:32:00.003Z

We have so many books (SO MANY BOOKS!) in our house that it makes going to the library a liability. Yet, I will still frequent said book repository because, as the saying goes: 'use it, or lose it' and I still have former colleagues and acquaintances there clinging onto their jobs by the skin of their teeth, thanks to budget cuts!

However, there are still a good many un-read books awaiting my attention at home - the picture above gives a selection on my bedside table (this was culled recently and all the 'read' ones returned to their homes on the bookshelves.....

....just a few of the books....and bottles of beer! There's bookcases and shelves in every
room but this makes good use of the 'dead space' on the turn of the stairs)

But, back to the title of this post - currently I'm reading Simon Kernick's 'The Last 10 Seconds' and reacquainting myself with some of the recurring character's in Mr Kernick's books, in this case DI Tina Boyd. I'm only a few chapters in but I'm already relaxing back into Kernick's style of writing and enjoying that 'come hither' twist with which he frequently ends his scenes - it's a struggle to close the book and put out the light!

Stacked up at the back are the next in the pile - top, Pam Jennoff's 'The Officer's Lover'; John Nichol's 'Exclusion Zone' and Peter James' 'Not Dead Enough'.

I've read some of Pam Jennoff's other books and loved the time frame (WW2 and following) but this one 'The Officers's Lover' (also known as 'Almost Home') is set more in the Cold War era - we'll see how that goes.

Former RAF pilot John Nichol's 'Exclusion Zone' has bite and grit and his real-life insight as a former POW carries a lot of punch. I've read this before but I'm looking forward to it again.

Peter James' 'Not Dead Enough' will be a delight - renewing my acquaintance with DS Roy Grace. I've read others in this series (all have the word 'Dead' in the title!) but not in sequence. (I don't always have the discipline to read chronologically and if I see a newer title I'll buy it and stuff the sequential reading. Keeps you on your toes when plot lines straddle books, but then there's that 'Oh, NOW I understand' moment when regressive reading pulls everything into focus!)
;-)

So, there you have it.....oh, yes, that one poking out from underneath 'The Last 10 Seconds'? Well, that's me paying lip-service to 'chick-lit' - Gil McNeil's 'Needles & Pearls', the sequel to 'Diva's Don't knit'. I picked both books up in a secondhand bookshop in Hay-On-Wye and have to confess I thought it would be mindless reading, the equivalent of a cosy cup of hot chocolate before bed - but, I found myself wanting to know what happened to Jo McKenzie and her eclectic happenings when she takes on a wool shop and moves her now fatherless sons to the seaside....

Lest We Forget

2011-11-11T10:55:00.001Z

Every Friday, Lily Childs launches a weekly writing challenge using three words she selects at random; participants are invited to create prose or poetry up to a wordcount of 100.

This time last year the word-prompts were: Admonish, Percussion, and Belong. They inspired a piece of free verse that focuses more on WW1, but I hope you'll forgive me reprising it here, on this special day, as a tribute to ALL the fallen.

IN MEMORIUM

Fearful.

Admonished by those who thought themselves their betters.

Seeking a last breath of freedom from their squalid trench they rose,

Sacrificing themselves to shrill whistles and cries

And then the staccato percussion that charted their rapid demise as over the top they went,
Pouring like ants from a nest,

Seeing a new horizon, briefly, before lead and shrapnel marked their bodies,
In daubs of crimson.

Now, here, in fields to which only the valiant can belong,
Remain those daubs of poppy-red
Fluttering in the breeze.

Remembrances to the long-ago dead.

The Three 'R's - not!

2011-11-09T18:01:00.000Z

Recalling the old adage of basic education being the three 'R's (Reading, (W)riting & (A)rithmetic) I have to say that I can't live without the first two - and for the third - God bless the inventor of the calculator!

Lately, life has been topsy-turvy and any notion of regular reading and writing has gone out of my head. Also the length seems to have been coming in bite-size chunks, taken as and when a lull in the hostilities of everyday life allows!

NaNoWriMo arrived at breakneck speed and passed me by - alas, maybe next year I will get my act together!

Even the weekly 'Thursday@3' slot has lain vacant for a few weeks, despite my best intentions. That is not to say I haven't been writing - just that it's all in my head rather on paper or a screen at the moment.

One thing I've come across recently is Every Day Fiction which delivers flash fiction to your email address - bite-sized chunks to go with a cup of coffee or to peruse over your lunch break. I've enjoyed the work of new/unfamiliar authors and there's a delight in not knowing exactly what you'll find in the daily mail-out!

So, perhaps this will sustain me until (maybe even 'if'?) the muse strikes again!

All Singing - and sometimes all dancing, too!

2011-10-31T12:11:00.000Z

Those of you who have dropped by my blog before may know that I'm a keen fan of 'live' performance, especially West End musicals!

On Saturday evening, OH, daughter and I spent 'A Night With The Phantom' at Birmingham Symphony Hall listening to the wonderful Ramin Karimloo in an almost one-man show of musical theatre.

(It was Miss H's first big night out for many weeks after her recent 'incapacitation' so she was well chuffed!)

We've seen this amazing artiste in several London shows, including Miss Saigon, The Phantom of the Opera and it's sequel, Love Never Dies, in which he created the role of the Phantom.

After this very short tour (just four performances!) Ramin's back at work, rehearsing for Les Mis when he will return to the cast in the lead role of Jean Valjean, in November. (so guess who's already raiding the piggy bank for tickets......!)

Other goodies on the theatrical horizon include this:

Can't wait!

Thursday @ 3 - 'HELL IN PARADISE'

2011-10-20T15:00:00.002+01:00

I was searching for inspiration this morning as the 3.00pm deadline loomed and this week's 'Thursday@3' was still unwritten, not even formed in my mind.

Thank you to Glen, who suggested (tongue in cheek?) something along the lines of - 'there is this big family, loads of kids who can all sing. Then this Nanny comes along who can also sing...'

Also, David Barber, who suggested a current news item!

And Cormac Brown, who proffered the notion of how a strange or exotic item turned up in a room

These ideas are fermenting away in a corner and may appear in future weeks so thanks, you guys!

In the meanwhile a hitherto unimagined thought took root and with a little tender nurture blossomed into this week's story......for your perusal! Comments gratefully received, if you feel so inclined!

HELL IN PARADISE

They say such trauma must still echo around the place. Perhaps it does. Perhaps, though we don’t go looking for it, it still sits quietly waiting in the wings, curtained from everyday life to exist only within dreams. Indeed there are nights when I awake and wonder if the three gunshots I heard were real or just echoes of the past.

It’s been some years now; my childhood is a thing of the past and the memories of friends now departed are wrapped and stored in the far recesses of my mind, to cherish in private. We mourned, we rejoiced and we gave thanks for those blessed lives that touched our own but life moved on, for we believe this reality is not all there is.

Our lifestyles are so different. They laugh at us, for our simple ways. We are quaint; a curiosity to be observed, but do they understand we see them, too? I don’t envy the incessant chaos that seems to follow them yet I wonder if those winsome glances they cast towards us reflect a longing for peace and simplicity. But when our worlds collided on that day there was no peace.

Their world crashed into ours and they expected us to crumble, to be dissolved into their expectation of despair and anger and for a time there was pain and confusion, until we gathered up our shattered dreams and brokenness.

We remembered, we mourned; but we believe this life is not all there is and so we turned our hands outward and comforted them in their sorrow and that has brought a peace their world cannot give.

The above story was inspired by the mention of the 2006 Amish schoolroom tragedy in a Youtube video I watched recently. After the loss of their children in a brutal shooting incident, the Amish community drew ranks around the family of the killer, Charles Roberts, showing as much love and concern for them in their grief and loss as their own Amish brethren.

Aside from their beliefs, we have much to learn from them - after all, 'when the oil runs out and the revolution comes' we may need to go back to a simpler lifestyle! So, perhaps there's an incentive for me to keep knitting........!

Thursday @ 3 - 'A SIMPLE PLEASURE'

2011-10-13T19:17:00.000+01:00

This story started off a long time ago. In fact, I was surprised to see the remnants lying at the back of the 'virtual' filing cabinet. Anyway, I picked it up, dusted it off and tweaked it a little and now it fits the criteria for 'Thursday@3' - coming in at 333 words!

Here you go!

A SIMPLE PLEASURE

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was akin to peeking in Pandora's Box and she couldn’t take the risk. Instead, Brenda glanced up at the clock on the dresser. Patience, dear, she thought to herself and brushed a wisp of hair back off her face.

He’d be home soon. All the long day she’d planned for this. Everything was in place, but she just needed a little more time. Life had been full of so little joy these last few years and simple pleasures had to be taken as and when they presented themselves.

So as she sat and waited, resisting the urge to open the door even just for a peep, she turned towards the letter on the shelf by the dresser. Fingering the envelope she withdrew the flimsy paper inside and settled herself on a stool to read it again for the umpteenth time that day. Her lips twitched as her eyes darted across the page. Even now, she felt her heart thudding in her chest as the smile she could not repress stretched out on her lips.

She folded the page, tucking it carefully back inside in the envelope before she placed it back on the shelf beside the quietly ticking clock.

Arthur would be home soon and then she’d be able to tell him, show him the letter, let him know the wonderful news that Laurence was safe and well.

In the days and weeks after V.E. day they had waited for news and finally it had come. Although she would not let herself fully believe it until their son walked back through the front door this, at least, was a time for celebration.

Another two minutes, she thought. Two minutes. Not so long to wait. Besides, a whole month’s rations were just too much to waste by opening the oven door too soon. Patience, dear, she thought sitting down by the sink. They’d toast their son’s repatriation with tea and cake.

Simple pleasures.

(apologies if Blogger won't allow you to leave a comment - but you can always 'Tweet' one to me!)

F3 - Cycle 52 - THE ANNIVERSARY

2011-10-10T17:05:00.000+01:00

The team over at F3 have a guest challenger for this week's prompt - David Barber!

He set us the task of constructing a story prompted by this picture and invited us tell a tale about these two old codgers in a car.

This is what it sparked off in me - please, do, leave a comment. (Check out the other contributor's stories, too - via the F3 page link!)

THE ANNIVERSARY

Ernest pushed the gear stick into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. For quite a few minutes neither he nor Sheila said a word, they just stared out through the windscreen at the lake. The softly falling rain ran in small rivulets, unimpeded by the now-stationary wiper blades and slowly the vista became blurred.

Sheila looked down at her hands, grasping the handbag on her lap. Her knuckles were white as she wrung the tan leather between her fingers. Ernest knew what was going through her mind, what was being played out in her unspoken fantasy. He knew well enough to stay quiet on this very special day.

Part of him hoped this would be the last time they would do this, but deep down he knew that in twelve months they would be back here, parked up beside this beautiful spot, imagining things that were far from picturesque.

Sheila’s frenzied attack on her bag was punctuated with short gasps, imagining the man she saw in her mind’s eye, until finally the tears came, in sympathy with the raindrops on the windscreen.

Ernest reached across and laid his large hand with its chubby digits on top of Sheila’s clenched fists, waiting for the tension to release.

For the last thirty-odd years they had performed this sad ritual, marking the summers that had passed since that fine July evening when their world had been turned upside down and all that they’d thought stable was washed away on a maelstrom of terror and unknowing.

Melanie’s body had been found by the edge of the lake and had set in train a sequence of police interrogation and subsequent trials until finally they were left alone with no answers or resolution. There were several possible candidates for the guilty party and though cases were brought none could be proven.

So, they had buried their daughter and gone through the motions of trying to get back to what passed for a normal life.

Somewhere, the details of Melanie’s possible abduction and murder by persons unknown languished in the back of a police filing cabinet unsolved, all but forgotten; one of those ‘cold case’ documents that implied that the police had not given up.

Still, after all this time there was no progress. All that remained was an aching loss which they felt was their duty to maintain, however painful or futile; as if to not remember would be like extinguishing their beloved daughter from all existence.

Sheila stirred and Ernest moved his hand back to the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition, the gentle purr of the engine masking the noise of Sheila blowing her nose, dabbing at her reddened face with yet another Kleenex.

The wiper blades swished back and forth, clearing the blurred image as the car turned away, homage paid; another anniversary laid to rest.

Thursday @ 3 - 'STELLA BY STARLIGHT'

2011-10-06T15:00:00.003+01:00

Hurriedly put together this week - away from home and with limited WiFi access!

Hope you like it enough to comment! (comment even if you don't like it, anyway!)

STELLA BY STARLIGHT

She was always a classy broad. I remember the trail of broken hearts she left behind her. Then when she took up with the boss it wasn’t only broken hearts; it was broken fingers, broken legs, even a few fatal ‘accidents'.

You quickly learned you could ‘look’ but not ‘touch’. If the boss was around you made sure you weren’t seen doing that, even. Jealousy sure is a bad thing, but coupled with a possessive nature it sealed Stella’s fate.

It was the Spring of ’31; Stella was getting noticed around the back alley joints as a real looker. Add to that her voice and it’s no wonder it didn’t take long before she came to the boss’s attention. And he liked what he saw.

He dressed her in furs, draped her in jewels and they were seen at all the best places in town. That’s when she realised she was snared – Eddie Sladen always got what he paid for.

Poor kid. I remember sneaking out back to get some fresh air – the joint was heaving that night, prohibition or not, cologne and whiskey distilled into a heady atmosphere. That’s when I noticed her propped against a wall, a delicate trail of smoke curling from the cigarette holder in her hand, shoulders shaking as she sobbed.

What’s a guy to do? She just about broke my heart, too, that night. I threw her the keys and pointed to the car. Even in the starlight she was beautiful, despite the smeared makeup and puffy eyes. She smiled and blew me a kiss before she wobbled unsteadily into the night. That was the last I saw of her.

They fished her body out of the river the next morning. The boss didn’t even wait until the end of the week before he had a gold-digging bitch hanging off his arm but I didn’t say anything; thanks to Stella I had a broken heart already and I planned on keeping everything else intact.

Thursday @ 3 - 'FIBONACCI RULES! OK?'

2011-09-29T15:00:00.002+01:00

It's been a few weeks since the last 'Thursday @ 3' - and I have to say it's good to be back!

To celebrate, here's a little tale coasting in at 333 words, the upper end of the limit for these Thursday afternoon (UK time!) treats - but, heck, that's just numbers, unless it's your passion, like one of today's characters.......

FIBONACCI RULES! OK?

The man with the shaved head and expensive-looking shades glanced across the table at the cowed, shambling figure opposite. Clearly the two were not entirely comfortable in each other’s presence but pressing needs brought them together, so what could not be enjoyed somehow had to be endured.

Simon shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable with the sophisticated café-culture that formed the backdrop to their unlikely rendezvous but thankful for the foaming latte he cradled in his hands. Despite the Spring chill, several street-side tables were occupied, so they did not look totally out of place, sunglasses notwithstanding. He smiled briefly knowing he possessed something that set him apart from Delacroix and he began tapping away at the notebook propped open on the table.

His particular proficiency centred on the exact science of mathematics. Since early childhood he had been in thrall to all things numerical. He could appreciate a sophisticated beauty in numbers that few others could understand. Indeed, his love affair with calculus and its absolute exactness had impaired his ability to cope with the variables of everyday life, which he considered chaos. He had retreated inwards, shunning the outer world where possible, but still prostituting his numerical finesse when the need arose.

Delacroix pulled his coat collar tighter around his neck, frustration growing behind the dark glass that veiled his eyes. His unspoken irritation prompted the tapping of a few final staccato keystrokes and Simon turned the notebook towards his ‘employer’.

Since their last meeting he had discovered much that disquieted him concerning the mysterious Delacroix. A previously resisted urge of patriotism had surfaced, along with a pleasurable realisation that the mathematical codes he’d created to deceive Delacroix and thwart his treacherous plans would also conceal his own identity.

With the transaction completed he stepped smartly away from the table, pocketing the proffered envelope of cash and headed for the subway. Hearing the approaching sirens he smiled briefly and scratched one up to the nerds, then disappeared into the maze of tunnels.

-oOo-

(As always, comments and feedback are invaluable - and greatly appreciated, thank you!)

Turning the generator on.....

2011-09-28T17:31:00.000+01:00

.....just hand-cranking the machinery to get the old blog rolling again! ;-p

Thankfully, life's 'events' seem to be returning to normal so I'm able to devote some quality time to writing. Tomorrow's 'Thursday@3' feature is already 'in the can', so please remember to drop by, anytime after 3pm (UKtime).

Also - BIG 'thank you's to all who've been communicating with me regarding my daughter's recent trauma - the first op. seems to have been a success and 'the patient' is well on the mend and regaining more and more independence!

I look forward to catching up with all of you 'regulars' as the weeks progress - meanwhile, just off to oil the wheels and get things moving here again!

TFFO Debut!

2011-09-11T22:07:00.000+01:00

One of my stories is appearing over at David Barber's The Flash Fiction Offensive - I am honoured to be chosen to have my work published there, alongside such an august body of writers! :-o

Please drop by and take a look (I'd appreciate feedback) - and while you're there why not do yourselves a favour and browse the archives!
:-)

In other news - the 'patient' is making progress! Thanks to all who have contacted me over this; after a visit to the consultant on Wednesday we will hopefully know how successful the operation has been. I'm looking forward to getting back to the blog/writing - but in these circumstances family comes first!

....just putting you on 'hold'....

2011-09-03T21:45:00.000+01:00

Sorry, folks - the return was brief but I'm having to suspend things once again!

This time it's not due to technical difficulties, but a family member has health issues and so I'll be spending a fair amount of time dealing with that and won't have time to do much blog reading and writing for the next few weeks.

So this is just by way of letting you know that I haven't disappeared off the planet and neither am I totally ignoring you!

Hope to be back soon - until then, have fun, chaps!

(oh golly - now I feel really old - I remember having to work a switchboard exactly like the one in the pic!)

F3 - WAR IS HELL edition - "Fortunes Of War"

2011-08-30T11:38:00.000+01:00

This week's F3 fiction challenege was to write on the theme of war.

Here's my offering, comments gratefully received!

FORTUNES OF WAR

Home seemed a long way off for Jack Bailey; like a far, forgotten country that existed only in dreams.

But this was a nightmare.

In the midst of chaos it was incongruously quiet. The relentless barrage continued from beyond the scrap of land which either side claimed but neither owned, but as Bailey slowly turned around it seemed far off and muted.

As he’d crawled back up the hill to re-join his group the unusual lack of voices, some barking orders whilst others chipped away with encouraging banter to conceal their own fear, gave him cause for concern. Lifting his head warily he peered down into the mud-filled trench that had served as their base of operations. Instead, through the swirling mist of smoke and steam he saw what he believed to be a vision of hell.

He half fell, half staggered down the slope and sank into the dark brown silt, streaked with vermilion, finally coming to rest in a squatting position still clutching his Lee Enfield to his chest as if it was a barricade between him and the carnage ahead.

The dull roar that was building in his ears was like a train rushing towards him and he realised that the impact of the last shell had deafened him. Now that imaginary train was rushing out of a tunnel and the previous quietness was shattered with an unstoppable torrent of screams underscored with shouting and the clatter of retaliatory fire, with a deep bass tremble of groaning.

Bloody carnage lay strewn around him like detritus washed up on a beach after a storm. Corrugated iron, twisted and warped, lay like metal shrouds partly concealing bodies and armaments; tin cups, the remnants of a shaving kit, gas masks with their hoses spilling out of their cases like entrails.

He paused, consumed in fascinated horror at the sight of three fingers which poked up out of the mud, detached from the rest of its limb. A ring, still intact, identified it as one of his friends; they had signed up the same day, each egging the other on to cover up their own private fears. It would all be over by Christmas, they’d said, as if it was a football match and life would return to normal all too soon.

Over by Christmas, thought Jack; but which Christmas? Weeks had stretched into months and Christmas parcels had struggled through to them for the last two years.

“You there! Don’t just bloody well stand there gawping! Get that rifle up; shoot the bloody Hun!”

The salutary reminder that the warhorse galloped on relentlessly came in the form of an officer’s bark. Jack turned to face him, a mere stripling trying to earn honours on a battlefield by urging other’s on in front of him.

Jack stood his ground. Bastards, the lot of them, with their cut-glass accents and smart new Sam Browns strapped over immaculate uniforms.

The officer hesitated, a look of consternation on his face as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Bailey? Is it you? I-I- thought I saw you dead, down there.” He gesticulated towards the pile of corpses scattered around, some submerged in the mud.

As Jack peered through the haze, his nostrils newly assaulted above the sting of cordite by the stench of opened bowels, he saw a man’s head, or what was left of it. The features were completely blown away into a bloody pulp of bone and gristle, yet his helmet had rolled away leaving a shock of auburn hair that pierced the gloom, lit up by the lightning flashes of the incoming bombardment.

Jack instinctively pushed off his own helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, a similar shade to his fallen comrade.

“Where have you been, man?” The officer’s new accusations interrupted Jack’s thoughts of what might have been his own fate. His silence aggravated the situation until he turned back to the officer, his attention drawn as the man upholstered his pistol and pointed it at Jack.

“Deserter, eh?” A superior sneer began to trace its way across the young man’s face. “No time for Court Martials!” he added as he cocked the trigger to administer swift justice.

“No, Sir,” answered Jack. “On reconnaissance. Sergeant Belvedere sent me down the road to Verches with a message for the Australian troops there.” In any other situation he would have commented on the unlikely chance that it had afforded him; the unexpected pleasure of meeting up with two of his brothers. They’d emigrated to Australia to make their fortunes, only to be sent back to fight for King and country.

“A convenient excuse,” replied the officer, “but there’s no time…” The officer slumped forwards, his pistol still tightly clutched in his hand as he slithered on the mud and fell, dead before he reached the floor.

A tiny wisp of smoke trailed from the end of Jack’s rifle, rising up and mingling to be lost in the issue from countless other discharged ordnance.

A rustling from the other side of the small ridge announced the arrival of four other soldiers, in uniforms of a different army. They crossed over to where Jack stood, one involuntarily voiding the contents of his stomach as he took in the sight of hell strewn all around.

The leading Corporal looked at the prone body of the officer, the pistol still held in his death grasp pointing at Jack. He took in the immediate scene then slowly eased the barrel of Jack’s rifle downward. An unspoken understanding passed between the men. What had happened would remain their secret. Brother’s in arms, brothers in fact; they knew it was a 'kill or be killed' situation.

“S’trweth, mate,” marvelled one of the others as he looked out across the darkened sky. “ It’s like bloody hell on earth!”

No it isn’t, thought Jack. It’s not like it at all.

“Got any ciggies?” he asked. Even an Aussie smoke would be better than nothing, he thought, as he shouldered his rifle, noting the shake in his hands as one of the soldiers searched his pockets and handed one over.

The five men made their way down into the depths of the precincts of hell that had formerly been the quarters of Jack’s brigade. He nodded thanks at the young lad from Woolagong and took a drag on the cigarette as they made their way through the bodies and broken armaments, giving what little aid and comfort they could to the few survivors.

Jack mused on the quirk of fortune that had seen him despatched from what surely could have been his death, straight into the surreal scene of meeting his brothers. He’d heard stories of miracles; one day he’d have a fine tale to tell his children and his grandchildren.

Home still seemed a long way off, somewhere on the other side of this battle, or the next. For now, a warm summer evening in June 1916, at least he was in the company of heroes as they scrambled in this muddy battlefield near a place called Fromelles.

Some of this story is based on fact. Companies of Australian forces were indeed involved in the battle of Fromelles in the the summer of 1916.

Jack Bailey represents my own Grandfather, Joe Beattie, who actually met up with his brothers serving in the Australian army while given special leave of absence to leave his post and travel to a nearby billet where the Australian forces were stationed.

On his return, he discovered that a German shell had exploded in his trench killing several of his fellow soldiers. One of the survivors turned as white as a sheet as he saw my Grandfather return - he'd been posted as killed, when a faceless body had been identified as him, solely from the shade and colouring of his auburn hair.

What were the chances? If he'd stayed at his post, I might not even exist today!

Sun, Sea, Sand, Skates and .....Seth!

2011-08-29T20:00:00.000+01:00

Just got back from a lovely time on the south coast - visiting family, taking in a spectacular ice show (imagine a grand piano on an ice rink and the guy skating around it does leaps and backflips and then manages to slide over and play a virtuoso piece as part of his 'routine'!) and the big treat of the day was an open-air Seth Lakeman concert on the sea-front!

Well, I can't find a clip of the ice spectacular, but here's Mr Lakeman performing a 'signature' piece - 'Kitty Jay'. How he manages to play a fiddle and sing at the same time amazes me!

Enjoy!

A New Beginning.....and a new story!

2011-08-26T21:22:00.002+01:00

After a brief semi-hiatus, when my previous laptop decided to shuffle off it's binary-code coil and fall to bytes, I'm at last back in the land of blogging!

So I thought a shiny new laptop deserves a shiny fresh blog-page. Out with the old and in with the new - a change in wallpaper; move the 'pictures' around; add a few features (take a few away!); and hopefully sort out the clutter!

A lot of the content will stay the same - this is my 'original' blog; the other offshoots have specific functions but this is where I intend to keep the bulk of my interest in fiction (writing and reading) and the various comments on life in general.

The usual regular 'Thursday @ 3' slot will remain but there may be other weekly/monthly items - those projects are largely still on a back-burner, so keep your eyes peeled.

I really want this space to be a little more organised - but I can do 'haphazard' as and when the occasion demands and if the writing bug really bites I may be gone for days....... ;-p

As the previous laptop 'died' halfway through the 'August Break' daily feature I've abandoned that for this year - but I hope to be ready for it in 2012.

In the meantime, to start off the new-improved blog here's a story! I was going to keep this for something else, but it has sat patiently in the wings (well, the 'virtual' filing cabinet, anyway) for a wee while - let's dust it off and give it an airing! (As always, I'd value your comments!)

SIX DEGREES OF REPENTENCE

He always thought back to the first one.

After 43 years none of the details had slipped his mind. The memories were neither tarnished with age nor distorted by time. He remembered as accurately as if it had happened yesterday. Every day. His waking thoughts might jostle for position but sooner or later the spectre would emerge from the wings reminding him; that look of horror etched upon her face as she slipped beneath the wheels.

He hadn’t known her, never even heard her voice, except in that last, fatal gasp. She had just become surplus to requirements, an untidy loose end that needed tying off. Over the years, he’d become very good at tidying up; at silencing unwanted voices.

Pelham Burne looked at the clock, watching as the minute hand edged closer to the hour. Aside from the music and the assembled throng he was alone with his thoughts.

Alone?

No, never alone.

Always, he was accompanied by the deceit he had hidden from so many, so carefully concealed behind the lies that covered other lies.

He looked down at his hands. The dark, pigmented liver-spots and wrinkles that bore testimony to his age were like a veil that partially obscured what he saw, what he remembered. The same hands that had taken life, extinguished the flame and then covered up the deed.

So far, he had managed to suppress any inkling of his former occupation, but now it seemed time was catching up with him. Truth had a strange way of leaking out into the open, no matter how hard one tried to supress it.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the faces indelibly printed on his brain. He heard again their pleading voices, the screams, the looks of betrayal as one by one his victims stepped from the dark shadows of his mind to accuse him afresh.

When he opened his eyes the music had stopped and a hushed silence had fallen around him. He stood wearily and climbed the steps to the podium aware of the eyes upon him. Perhaps, he thought, it was only his conscience getting the better of him. He was a different man now. Things had changed since then and he’d taken on a new life, a new identity. He had repented, long ago – but, had he?

He considered the five degrees of repentance that had been instilled into him – admission, remorse, apology, restitution, and turning away.

Yes, he had admitted his past, even if only to someone who could never repeat those admissions. Remorse had followed, a great weight of sorrow that had engulfed him, denying any chance of peace. The apologies had been made, along with some endeavour of restitution, but always anonymously. Turning away had, surprisingly, been the easiest of the degrees to accomplish – perhaps the sickening stench of death that seemed to follow him was incentive to close that particular door on his life.

Now, as Burne returned his thoughts to the present, a sixth degree presented itself: forgiveness. By others, by himself. It would have been so easy to carry on living the lie but peace still eluded him because he could not seek the forgiveness that would allow him to be fully free of the past.

He rubbed his eyes and hesitated, a slight ripple of unease began within the seats before him. He thought back to the deaths he had brought about; the judicious rifle shots, the hand in the small of the back that had pushed victims to their deaths, the automobile accidents that had never been fully explained and the blood money that had been his reward.

It was almost a lifetime away and he began to argue back against himself justifying his present position. He called to mind all the good he had since been able to achieve; the homeless shelters he’d set up, the programmes to get kids off the streets and out of petty crime, the potential suicides he’d averted. It was an atonement of sorts, wasn’t it?

But was it enough?

His heart thudded in his chest as hard as if he’d been violently punched, almost knocking the breath out of him. He opened his mouth to gasp, to draw in air but his lungs refused to fill. The pressure in his chest continued; a pain that surged upwards into his shoulder racing along his left arm and he knew it was time. As his legs began to buckle beneath him he heard the consternation of the crowd, though mercifully his fading vision robbed him of their anxious faces.

Had he done enough, he fleetingly thought? Perhaps it was now too late. Perhaps, after all, being a hitman for the mob was just too much to be forgiven.

As darkness beckoned, one final question still meandered in the ebbing electrical impulses of his brain.

Would his congregation forgive him, Monsignor Pelham Burne, as readily as the God he had professed to serve?

On the horizon.....

2011-08-25T14:50:00.000+01:00

.....I'm hoping 'normal' service will be resumed fairly soon - I think I've spotted the laptop/package I want, but thinking it over before I rush out and part with hard-earned cash!

As for returning to 'normal' - well that, too, may be something of a misnomer. I'm considering tacking into a different 'breeze' with a slight change of direction and emphasis.....it will be interesting to see how that pans out, if only in terms of 'followers'!

So, as soon as things are back up and running, you'll be the first to know!

In the meantime, here's a small 'filler' for the interlude:
;-)

Interruption of service

2011-08-17T19:03:00.000+01:00

There may be an interruption to my blogging - my laptop is being very 'difficult' (it may actually be in its death throes) so I may have to resort to the old (virtually hand-cranked!) PC for further communication! If I can't get laptop sorted I will have to raid the piggy bank -

- but, I'LL BE BACK!!!!

:-)

F3 - Cycle 44 - "TEMPEST FUGITIVES"

2011-08-16T13:40:00.002+01:00

This weeks F3 challenge is inspired by the 'unrest' we are experiencing in the world today - be that social or economic.

This story was sparked off by the recent unrest and rioting in the UK.

TEMPEST FUGITIVES

How much longer? That’s all I can think of; surely this has to end some time?

The looting started soon after it became apparent that there wouldn’t be enough food to go around. Pretty soon people were raiding shops for any other ‘tradable’ items to barter for bread and milk. Gangs broke into warehouses and ‘appropriated’ food, fuel, anything that could have a price in the days to come. It didn’t take long for society to falter. Food supplies finally ran out as the transport system ground to a halt, crops rotted in the fields and in the land of canned goods, the man with a tin opener was king.

The motorways became graveyards where vehicles littered the carriageways as a frightened population tried to flee the anarchy in the streets. Some died in their cars through thirst or hunger, scared to escape the congestion on foot; others died trying to protect what little they’d managed to take with them. Ransacked wagons with their doors ripped open lay like huge dead animals, the remnants of their cargoes spilling out into the breeze, carrion to be picked over by both the opportunist and the desperate.

It’s been six months now. The night curfew echoes with cries and shots and with no power to transmit or receive, the Great British Public no longer sit watching the TV to live vicariously through 'Big Brother' or 'Britain’s Got Talent' or any of the interminable ‘soaps’ and dramas. Until the power ran out the TV networks were swamped with news reports and when the internet was still alive the constant chatter on social networks meant fact became far more curious than fiction.

With the breakdown in society and police backed into submission the army had been called in to deal with the situation. They managed to create enclaves where it was possible to survive but the vast majority of us are on our own in this. Ingenuity and lessons from a time before microchips may be all we can rely on as we all learn to ‘make do and mend’.

A few months have knocked our civilisation back into the dark ages, where it’s every man for himself, jealously guarding the pitiful scrap of territory they believe to be their own. The ‘have’s’ and ‘have not’s’ fought it out and we became a nation of ‘I will take’s’.

Cynically, I think how much we probably deserve this ‘payback’ from a society as smashed and broken as those shop windows; we wanted a better life for the next generation, they wanted rights without responsibilities and now they are biting off the hand that feeds them.

What good, now, the politicians’ posturing and promoting initiatives and treating the ‘symptoms’ of a sick society rather than dealing with the root cause of the canker that has sapped all sense of pride and self-worth? Too late, the horse has bolted and a 'free for all' has become a 'free for none'.

‘O brave new world,’ Shakespeare’s Miranda breathed, ‘that has such people in it’. Even with my sparse education I recall she marvelled at a world unknown to her. Now our world will need to be more than brave if we are to survive this current tempest.

Another volley of shots. More shouting. A disquieting litany as I pull the blanket tighter. I can’t remember what it’s like to settle down to sleep without fear. Surely it must end soon?

But then I remember – it’s 2012. Perhaps those doom-prophecies were right after all, foretelling the demise of civilisation and rise of anarchy as the harbingers of Armageddon.

The saying goes: tempus fugit, time flies. Is time really running out and are we merely fugitives from the tempest?

Is this just the beginning of the end?

The August Break 2011 - Day 16

2011-08-16T12:37:00.000+01:00

Went to get something from the shed - confronted with an unwelcome 'guest' from next door neighbour's garden. It's like the 'Day of the Triffids'! :-o

The August Break 2011 - Day 14

2011-08-15T19:25:00.000+01:00

Now this is what I call multi-tasking! ;-)

The blog I was catching up on is called in so many words... - well worth a look if you have five minutes!

As for the knitting - you'll have to check out my other blog The Knitting Assassin to check out progress!

The August Break 2011 - Day 13

2011-08-13T18:32:00.000+01:00

Missed yesterday's pic - but here's daughter's cat, in a very superior position!

Don't jump, kitty!!!

Thursday @ 3 - "Upping the Ante"

2011-08-11T15:00:00.001+01:00

OK - the last couple of weeks I've been pre-occupied with 'life' in general and DIY in particular, so you've had 'recycled' stories in this 'Thursday@3' slot.

Today, however, I'm striving to get back on track and thanks to writer Adrian Magson, who 'Tweeted' me the opening words by way of inspiration, here's this week's offering! (New readers may benefit from reading through 'A DIRTY JOB' for the initial appearance on these pages of the main character)

Like the earlier story, I've overshot the usual 300-word limit, but again it comes in at exactly 333, so it still fits the criteria - sort of!

So, with Mr Magson's words in italics, here you go! (and comments will be gratefully received if you find yourself disposed so to do!)

UPPING THE ANTE

“This bloke came in and said I was to pick up the van from the warehouse. I swear I didn’t know about no guns.”

Strachan watched the live feed on his phone. The grainy image did not conceal the sweat and tears mingling into random cerise lines coursing down McGarrick’s face. Some of his wounds were a result of the high-speed chase, or rather the culmination of it, through the backstreets of Camden. The rest were what might best be described as ‘inducements’ to talk.

A voice called for him to go back to the beginning. McGarrick’s initial tardiness was rewarded with further ‘encouragement’, described in the guttural sounds emanating from behind his pursed lips.

Strachan’s fist involuntarily clenched in response. McGarrick coughed up more blood and slightly lifted his head, his one good eye staring towards the camera while the other lay sheathed behind the swollen folds of skin that once used to form an eyelid.

“I’ll ‘ave the lot of you,” he stuttered in mock defiance. “Bloody police brutality, that’s what this is!”

Strachan lifted the phone to speak.

“Another hour, then finish it,” he said quietly. He paused, taking one last look at McGarrick, in character to the end, then shut off his phone. Pulling the SIM card out, he ground it under his boot before turning back to rest on the railings of Vauxhall Bridge. He looked like any tourist taking in the view of Thames House, the ‘public’ face of MI5, as he toyed with the phone, then casually let it slip from his fingers and plunge into the murky depths.

The newspaper hoardings were full of yesterday’s assassination in Downing Street and before long they’d be announcing the demise of one of the ringleaders, but the lads in the cells had no idea what they were dealing with; just following orders. Like McGarrick.

Counter intelligence had a way of screwing up people’s lives and not for the first time Strachan wondered just whose side he was actually on.

The August Break 2011 - Day 11

2011-08-11T12:40:00.000+01:00

The slugs and snails got the peas - let's see them try to get at these 'aerial' tomatoes, in a hanging basket! ;-p

The August Break 2011 - Day 10

2011-08-10T18:38:00.000+01:00

Ok - bit of a cheat here! 10 pictures, but all contained within 1 'new' one ;-)

These are just some of the family pictures I've unearthed discovering our family tree going back several generations - the oldest we believe to be the one at the very bottom, of my 2xGreat-Grandparents, taken somewhere around 1870.

Older branches of the family 'tree' dip back considerably further, to the earliest (documented) person, one John Hounam, born 1651! He was my 7xGreat-Grandfather.

A lot of my folks were cattle rustlers and sheep-thieves - also known as the Border Reivers! One of them even had a 'run-in' with Bonnie Prince Charlie!

On another branch, my Great-Grandfather was one of a hand-picked crew sent, in 1863, to escort Princess Alexandra to England for her marriage to the Prince of Wales, later King Edward V11, son of Queen Victoria.

There are also stone-masons, miners and the ubiquitous 'Ag Labs' - agricultural labourers, even a tea dealer in one lineage.

Best of all, one of them was a writer! :-)

(maybe there's hope for me yet!)

The August Break 2011 - Day 9

2011-08-09T18:14:00.000+01:00

I missed 'Day #8' - because quite frankly I was horrified by the images on UK television of feral youths on the rampage in our cities.

Today, hubby and I celebrate our 31st wedding anniversary and had a trip out to the Imperial War Museum, Duxford. Poignantly, I offer today's picture of a WW2 'Spitfire' from the Battle of Britain. In Winston Churchill's words: 'Never was so much owed by so many, to so few'.

Clearly, with the on-going unrest we're watching in horrified fascination on our TV screens, today is a bitter legacy for those brave airmen (some of them younger than the thugs rampaging London's boroughs!).

Other words fail me.

The August Break 2011 - Day 7

2011-08-07T20:12:00.000+01:00

Hacking back an invasive Buddleia I discovered this stem of Crocosmia, hidden in the mini 'jungle' by the shed and obscured by ornamental grasses. Now, I recall, there was quite a clump of it once upon a time - nice to see it's still hanging in there (just about!), so I shall have to do a little judicious pruning of the grasses and other shrubs and let this little gem shine!

The August Break 2011 - Day 6

2011-08-06T19:09:00.000+01:00

Saturday morning treat for daughter and I.

(Although we 'defected' to Costa Coffee from our usual sojourn to Cafe Nero! Shhhhhh - don't tell on us!)

The August Break 2011 - Day 5

2011-08-05T21:30:00.002+01:00

Tea and a good book - bliss!

...and the Liebster Award goes to......

2011-08-05T17:00:00.000+01:00

My blog-friend Jenny, over at The Modest Peacock, has passed on an award to me which I am very happy to accept - thanks, Jenny!

The rules of the award are:

1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Pick 5 awesome blogs to pass it on to and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
5. And most of all - have bloggity-blog fun!

Now to select 5 awesome blogs......ah, that's the hard part, choosing just five!

Well, after some consideration (and going back to cross certain contenders off my list as I've discovered they've also been given the award by someone else!) here are my five (in no particular order of merit - they're all fabulous!):

1. Arlee Bird's 'Tossing it out' - thanks to Arlee hosting the April A-Z 2011, Jenny's path and mine first crossed.

2. Rachel at Go Placidly - nepotism, I know, but her blog is full of all sorts of down to earth stuff!

3. Paul Gzregorzek at PAUL GRZEGORZEK'S THRILLER AND CRIME FICTION WORLD - a literary giant in the making! (that should be good enough for a free, signed copy of the novel when it comes out!)

4. Hege at Cloudberry - a recent acquaintance, but I'm loving her mix of crafts and books.

5. Yvette at in so many words... - a lady whose blog is a feast for the eyes!

Please do go and look in at each of their blogs - you will not be disappointed!

The August Break 2011 - Day 4

2011-08-04T21:00:00.000+01:00

A change from 'vegetation' - in other words, I didn't fancy wandering around in the wet! (It has been raining all day - not really heavy, just enough to make you feel soggy. We could do with a good thunderstorm to clear the humidity away!)

Anyway, this shot more or less sums up hubby and me - beer and books! He works for CAMRA, and I used to work in a library!

(This is just part of our collection.....!)

Thursday @ 3 - 'Reprise - or Déjà-vu?'

2011-08-04T15:00:00.003+01:00

As I suspected, time has once again gotten the better of me - coupled with some intensive DIY! Besides, after a week of being cooped up in a room in stifling weather accompanied by paint fumes, it's perhaps a good idea that I don't let my inventive imagination run riot!

Anyway, I had another pick through the 'virtual filling cabinet' and selected another three 'shorts'! Last week I forgot to mention that these 100-word (or less!) stories were inspired by Lily Child's weekly prediction series where she randomly selects three words as prompts and invites contributors to weave a tale to beguile and entertain. Apologies, Lily, for the oversight ;-)

This week, I'll show the three words for each story in bold - just so you can see what I was up against!

So, without further ado, three more for your perusal - you may have seen them before......or is it a case of déjà-vu? Enjoy!

EX LIBRIS

Nestled right up next to a heavy tome entitled ‘Purist Hypothesis and Postulations’ I found what I was looking for: ‘Evington’s Encyclopaedia of Parable, Metaphor and Fable’.

It had a nice feeling of weight to it as a struggled it down from the shelf.

Manoeuvring it onto the edge of the balustrade I waited for Professor Burgess to make his daily progress across the main concourse several floors below. A judicious nudge and with any luck he’d expire from the sudden shock of the mighty volume crashing down from above, if not from a direct hit.

Mark me down, indeed!

-oOo-

DELAYED IN TRANSIT

Stumbling through coach-class was a nightmare. With evidence and body parts strewn around, as if a whirling dervish had been first on the scene rather than my team of air accident inspectors, it was clear that this would be no picnic.

The main fuselage of the Aer Lingus jet was largely intact even if its occupants weren’t, but there was part of a wing section floating on the incoming tide.

I looked down at the severed head at my feet and notice her staring back up at me, not with fear but surprise, and her Irish eyes were smiling.

-oOo-

...and finally - I couldn't resist this one, given that I'm currently a 'beer-widow', as my hubby is working in London's Earls Court for CAMRA's Great British Beer Festival! (yes, you could say he gets paid to go to beer festivals!)

THE BODY IN THE BREWERY

Drunk.

Dead drunk.

Well, dead anyway. The massive cavity in the back of his skull and the half-brick lying nearby gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘stoned’.

The pungent air was laced with malt and yeast as husks of stray hops blew idly in the breeze like miniature tumbleweed.

As I walked around the yard that formed this micro-brewery pondering the reason for this crime, my rubber-soled shoes slapped on the sticky residue of spilled beer.

Could be a story in this – ‘The Body in the Brewery’.

Sounds like a 'Miss Marple'.

No, wait – that was the library.

The August Break 2011 - Day 3

2011-08-03T18:57:00.000+01:00

Why should the flowers have all the fun - this fern is one of my favourites plants! I love to watch each Spring as the fronds slowly uncurl and form this amazing plant. And I never planted it in the first place - it just 'arrived'! I'd been given a rhubarb plant which had died down over the winter; in fact it just died! In it's place, 'Fernie' arrived and took up residence (actually, there are four of them - a whole fern-family!) and has grown bigger and more profuse each year.

I miss the thought of the home-grown rhubarb, but I do love my ferns!

The August Break 2011 - Day 2

2011-08-02T20:16:00.000+01:00

More flowers today - an early morning wander around the garden brought me the delights of these fuschias. They always remind me of ballerinas!

The August Break 2011 - Day 1

2011-08-01T20:58:00.001+01:00

So, first time I've done this - I understand I have to produce a picture per day. Well, I had some interesting pictures from my DIY activities redecorating earlier,but I don't think you all want to watch paint drying, do you?

Instead - I chose one of the lilies in my garden (see above).

I've never grown them from bulb before but I bought six and gave them a go. Funny thing is, four of them grew tall and graceful, and two were puny little runts, size-wise - however, they have all produced beautiful and differently coloured flowers. The tall ones kept toppling over in their pots, so the other day I stood them in amongst other plantings and they look great, don't you think!

See who else is participting here

Thursday @ 3 - "3x3 re-run"

2011-07-28T15:00:00.004+01:00

Sorry folks, time's just got away from me (preparing to do some DIY ) and I haven't had time to create anything 'new' for this week. :-(

However, as I was trawling through the 'virtual' filing cabinet I came across a few previously aired mini-stories - each 100 words or less. So, to satisfy the 300-word limit of 'Thursday@3' here's three to keep you going!

Apologies if you've seen them before - but I think they bear another look! (hope to be back on track next week - assuming the decorating's finished!)

First off, a little walk on the wild side - all in the line of duty!

NIGHT SHIFT

If I don’t go soon I’ll lose my nerve. I could murder a stiff drink but I’m on duty. Damn, these shoes hurt, but I have to admit the five-inch heels sculpt my calves into something almost shapely.

Colin nods towards me and releases the catch, easing open the van door. He blows me a kiss earning him a scowl as I step out into the darkened alleyway.

As I cross the road and walk away I know I’m being watched. I hope they’re ready to act. It’s no fun being the Vice Squad decoy, especially when you’re in drag.

-oOo-

Next up - it ain't over until well after the last echoes of the 'fat lady singing' are just whispers:

ENDGAME

The Devil rubbed his hands in glee, as he watched the city fat-cats who lusted after profit.

Mankind, like Cinderella with amnesia, stumbled through the wreckage of history, unaware that life didn’t need to be this way; that there was an alternative. But Beelzebub bred his evil into their lives, a mongrel strain that twisted and warped their values.

Back in the Garden it had been so easy to deceive, he thought. Yet a disturbing unease that was not of his making tightened around the Prince of Darkness.

It started as the first bowl of wrath hit the earth!

-oOo-

Finally, proof that not all animals are 'dumb'?

LITERARY LUNCHEON

The goat smiled. If people left their stuff lying around and it got trashed that was their look-out. He licked his lips and swallowed, then bent down to munch another page.

Mmmmm….. ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’. He loved quality books; so much more to get his teeth into, and looking further into the bag there were other Tolkien goodies for ‘afters’.

He idly wondered how many rain forests had been pulped to satisfy the reading masses then froze in horror as a thin volume slipped out of the bag – “101 Goat Stew Recipes”.

Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.

F3 - Cycle 41 - "Fall Guy"

2011-07-26T13:20:00.004+01:00

This week the F3 crew are honoured to have Paul D. Brazill, eminent writer, interviewer (and prolific tweeter of tweets on Twitter!) as guest 'whip-cracker' for our weekly writing challenge.

To spur us on to literary creation he provided an opening sentence as a prompt, with the added option of the above picture for further inspiration! (with artistic licence, I'm determining the gender of the prone individual as male, late 30's and well built!)

So, with his opening words in italics and the rest my own invention - read on (and hopefully enjoy!) and please leave whatever comment you think appropriate! :-)

FALL GUY

I slowly peeled back my eyelids and immediately wished I was still out for the count. The last thing I wanted to see was three earnestly worried faces staring back at me.

“Lay still! Don’t move!” said a voice from somewhere above me. It was presumably connected to the hands that held my head in a vice-like grip. Now that my eyes were beginning to refocus I could see the guy’s lips moving but they weren’t synched to the words he was yelling. Man, if that didn’t engender panic I don’t know what would. Then again, maybe it was just the affects of concussion.

I tried to turn my head to the side but Vice-man held firm.

“I need to….”

“I said don’t move!”

“But….”

“Look, I’m a Med. student and I’m telling you not to move!”

Oh great! Some ER wannabee with a little knowledge and a lot of attitude. Well this could go one of two ways, I’d either vomit and aspirate the contents of my stomach, or else I’d make a really nasty mess of that expensive-looking leather jacket he was wearing but either way this thing had to play out!

“Oh, man! Shit! What a mess….” Med.Student released his grip momentarily in disgust and I managed a half turn of my head to spit out the remains of regurgitated food and stomach acid into a foetid pool way too near my own nose.

The squeal and shuffle that this, in turn, created from Earnest Face #2 attracted my attention momentarily. In her puffer jacket I took her for a student too, but judging from her reaction I didn’t think she was involved in anything remotely to do with health care.

“Man, that’s gross!”

Thank you for your concern, Ma’am, I thought. Here I was, recovering from whatever just happened and her reaction is to scream at me.

That, too, is an interesting point – what had just happened? I remembered walking across the road towards my car and hearing a sound like a faraway thunderclap, then these three amigos appeared.

When I managed to swivel my eyes a little left I saw the third in this trio of interested individuals taking just a little too much interest, if you ask me. And a little too much video footage on her cell-phone as well; I’d probably be a hit on YouTube within the hour.

“No…” I held my hand up across my face. Curiously this felt like one of those actors who scream ‘No photos! No comment!’ to the adoring paparazzi and then ask their entourage to check they got their best side.

Apart from the indignity of the situation there were several very good reasons I didn’t want my picture taken and none of them to do with the clarity of the close-ups.

I rolled free from the Med. Student, who was clearly more interested in limiting the damage to his clothing than in limiting possible damage to my spinal column, and wearily dragged myself to my feet. Raising a hand to the back of my head I felt the warm stickiness in my hair and the raw, open graze in my scalp.

Curiously, the pain I felt seemed to come more from the front of my face and looking down at my stained shirt I saw crimson trails that I tracked back up towards my nose. I staggered slightly as if drunk and reached out to the car to steady myself. That’s when I noticed the bloody stain on the wing mirror and the slight dent in the wing. I put two and two together and came up with a reasonable ‘four’ as an answer. A second glance in the mirror confirmed my broken nose and what was rapidly becoming a russet-shaded hue around my right eye.

Aware that I was still of interest to those around me, I had to do some quick thinking. The two girls I could easily cope with – Doc Kildare might take a little extra, he looked like he did weights; I guessed that beefcake image kinda helped with the bedside manner. Looking carefully around it seemed my three Good Samaritans were the only ones passing by at the time. Lucky break, I guessed; I could get this wrapped up quickly and be on my way.

I pocketed the cell-phone and rolled the bodies over into the undergrowth. I was right, the girls were no problem, a few deft swipes and they were looking at the sky with their heads in unnatural angles. Doc at least put up a bit of a fight but like a lot of gym-jockeys the muscle was just for show.

Now, the sting on the back of my head makes we wince as every bump in the road throws me back into the headrest but one thing still bothers me as I reverse back out onto the highway.

Who the hell just tried to shoot me?

Thursday @ 3 - "Paying the Price"

2011-07-21T15:00:00.003+01:00

A sombre tale, today, inspired by reading this. At least in this part of the globe we still have freedom of speech and also the freedom to practice faith - but for how long?

PAYING THE PRICE

I can see the grey and white clouds through the cracked and grimy glass beyond the bars at the window. It’s morning again, but I have no idea what day it is. The passage of time has become an enigma to me, disrupted by their relentless interrogation; endless hours standing, being kept awake – the pleasure of that sensation of falling into oblivion violently ripped from me with water or pain.

Sometimes I think that I have indeed slipped into blessed oblivion and that this is merely a nightmare I shall awaken from and hear familiar sounds, smell the aromas of distant cooking, feel the warmth of my wife sleeping next to me.

The cold, rough dampness of the wall at my back assures me this is no nightmare and the salt of my tears bites into the cuts and sores that they have inflicted. An obtuse thought strikes me that the saline qualities of those tears may serve as a simple remedy to infection; even in the midst of despair there is something positive.

The scudding clouds have moved and there is a wisp of blue beyond; a simple pleasure bringing hope amidst the grey depression of Sung Fui jail and all its horrors.

Reluctantly, I close my eyes and begin my morning devotions. It is hard to give thanks in my current situation but I cling to life, such as it is, praying for the strength to endure and hoping for a better tomorrow. And I am not alone, for the physical pain and deprivation cannot take from me what is hidden in my heart and my mind and I long for home.

There is little joy in paying the price for daring to express my faith, but I would do it again – how could I do otherwise?

F3 - Cycle 40 - "The Observer"

2011-07-20T18:31:00.000+01:00

This week's F3 prompt was in the form of this picture - what would it inspire?

Well here's one scenario, please feel free to comment! (Oh, and if you hop over to F3 you'll be able to catch the stories other members of this writing community have produced - give them a look-see, eh?)

THE OBSERVER

Every day’s the same. After breakfast I get dressed, although it takes a while to select my apparel for the day. Then I ride the trains.

All life is here. I’m a keen observer of life, you see. That’s why I like to ride the trains because there’s no landscape to distract me; I can just feast my eyes on all those faces around me.

The whole world comes here; I hear so many different accents that I can almost imagine I’m in any city on the planet.

So, I keep watching and listening. I miss nothing; I can even lip-read, taught myself. Also perfected the art of the glazed look for when someone stares back. They usually turn away pretty quickly, especially if I start mumbling to myself.

Sometimes it’s hard seeing other people like me. Well, not really like me, they just look that way. I’d love to help them, get them a square meal, spare clothes, you know the sort of thing.

Still, I know my ‘regulars’ – old guy, gets on three stops from me, always carrying a battered old leather suitcase. I’ve fanaticised about what he carries in there but he’ll never tell me because we’ve never spoken.

Then there’s the Mom with the kids – never seen a wedding band; probably does three jobs just to keep them clothed and fed. Nice kids though, polite and all.

But you, now, you’re a newcomer. Just moved into the city? Busy, isn’t it? People running here there and everywhere, scurrying about like ants. I see it all. I file it all away. It’s my job, see. Oh, this is your stop? Well, see you later, maybe. I’ll be here, riding the trains.

Of course, when it’s quitting time I ride to the end of the line and Jefferson picks me up. Jefferson? Oh, he’s my chauffeur. Means I can get home unseen and no-one knows my true identity. I’ll shower and change into something comfortable – I love the feel of pure linen and cashmere against my skin.

Then I’ll grab a scotch and head for the den and spend a couple of hours writing up my day. The novel’s going well, but I do enjoy my research – meeting new ‘characters’ as I ride the trains. Like I say, all life is there!

East of Eden

2011-07-19T11:27:00.002+01:00

Living in the middle of the country (not far off dead-centre, actually!) means getting to the coastal extremities is a long, long journey! So trekking down to Cornwall is not something we'd do on a whim - nearly 300 miles and not all of it on motorways - think slow, windy lanes in places!

Anyway, we had the opportunity to visit the westernmost county of England (although some see it as a kingdom of its own) and decided to fulfil a long-held wish to visit the Eden Project while we were there.

Battling heavy rain showers was interesting but once inside the 'biomes' it was, indeed, like being in a different world.

The two main structures (biomes) contain the 'Rainforest' and 'Mediterranean' climates and you have to admire the sheer construction of the habitats to begin with! The Rainforest biome is large enough to contain the Tower of London - aparently, the biomes are recorded in the Guinness Book of Records as the world's largest 'conservatories'!

(to give you an idea of scale - click on the picture and look at the people on the walkways of this aerial gantry!)

In the Rainforest biome the temperature and humidity hit you smack in the face - with cold-room respite shelters for those overcome by the conditions! With the birds, small lizards and waterfalls it's the nearest I shall ever come to a jungle - thank goodness they hadn't also imported too many indigenous insects and creepy-crawlies! (But I spotted a stray Robin picking through the undergrowth!)

Besides being beautiful to look at, there's a great concept of education behind it all:

Walking into the Mediterranean biome was like a breath of fresh air - much more temperate! And some of the planting was more more familiar, too!

Although, there was a re-created desert habitat with specimens (and fun items!) from the west coast of America - hmmm, 'Mediterranean'?

Aside from these two massive biomes there's a huge refectory and bakery:

Also, building on the education theme, 'The Core' houses inter-active exhibits on ecology

Ecology, in fact, is the name of the game - the whole site is contained within a former clay mining pit and as such is 'invisible' in the surrounding Cornish landscape. Natural rainwater harvested from the biomes' surface and surrounding areas drains into vast collection reservoirs under the site, servicing the irrigation system and the toilets! Everything, where possible, is recycled - non-recyclable items are used to make original art-work to adorn the outer garden spaces!

It was an interesting concept - but I couldn't help having a futuristic sci-fi moment as I passed by this viewpoint, imagining a post apocalyptic remnant of mankind being forced to live in these 'glass bubbles':

Anyway, just a few pics to give you a flavour!

Thursday @ 3 - "Show & Tell"

2011-07-14T15:00:00.021+01:00

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Some of you 'regular readers' will know I have a great love for the work of Norman Rockwell. His paintings are more than mere pictures; each one tells (or has the potential to inspire) a story.

So, for this week's 'Thursday@3' what better than a tale suggested by this beautiful Rockwell print .....oh, shhhhhh! Seats, everyone - Teacher's coming!

SHOW AND TELL

"Class!”

A reproachful glance, perfected over decades dedicated to the education and enlightenment of young minds, was enough to smother the rising ripple of hilarity. Nevertheless, pockets of mirth broke out like miniature forest fires and even the gracious and long-suffering Miss Jones could not keep a smile from tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Well, there is certainly some improvement in your handwriting!” she commented, with a sly wink towards the blackboard. The morning’s work she’d painstakingly chalked up the previous evening, long after her young charges had gone home, was now defunct. Any other day, she’d have let slip a few severe and stern words, but not today. Today was – special.

“We’re going to do something different,” said Miss Jones, hanging up her coat. The instant hubbub of speculation and twisting round in seats to confer with their neighbours was enough distraction for her to lift a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing away the dampness from her eyes. By the time she turned to face them again she had, outwardly at least, regained her composure enough to continue.

“Today we’re going to have a special ‘show and tell’ session!” The children looked at each other quizzically, wondering whose turn it was to stand at the front of the class, embarrassed or ebullient.

Perched on the edge of her desk in an unfamiliarly relaxed way, she mysteriously reached into her skirt pocket to produce a small box. Today it was Miss Jones’ turn to ‘show and tell’ but her vision was slightly blurred as she surveyed the bright and excited eyes that focussed on her.

There was much craning of necks and at least one chair tumbled over as those in the back row stood to get a better view.

The diamond ring that sparkled in the blue baize box signalled both a beginning and an end; a new life for her, but also a parting of the ways as she took her leave of her young pupils.

A bittersweet birthday treat.

Cats v Dogs?

2011-07-12T18:07:00.000+01:00

As a lifelong dog owner/lover I find myself surprisingly smitten by my daughter's new feline 'companion' - Amber (or Ms Amber-cat Purrs-a-lot, as DD refers to her!).

Amber was re-homed via Cats Protection and has some vision impairment, so she is not an outside/predatory cat - however she seems to adore sitting halfway up the stairs poking her head through the bannisters so she can 'spy out' the rest of the house!

Companion animals have a great scope to give comfort by their presence and entertainment in their sometimes peculiar behaviour but which are the funniest - cats or dogs?

Perhaps these two clips might help you make up your mind - well, they'll have you chuckling, anyway!

Thursday @ 3 - "A CochonaryTale"

2011-07-07T15:00:00.017+01:00

Has intensive animal husbandry bred out the 'survival' instinct in the farmyard? Perhaps not completely; this week's 'Thursday@3' veers towards all matters bucolic - but not necessarily in the idyllic sense!

(excuse the play on (French) words for the title! :-p)

A COCHONARY TALE

The goat was right all along; none of us dumb animals is worth diddly-squat when push comes to shove.

That things have changed in management circles is evident in the three long days and nights we’ve been left to fend for ourselves.

The chickens have scattered haphazardly around the yard, scratching out something of a poor living from any seeds and grubs they can hunt out.

The goat bleats in between tearing strips of ivy from the wall.

“I to-old you so-o!” he croaks hoarsely at me, lifting his nose over the boundary of my domain. He smells the cool rainwater that’s collected in the old tin bath in the corner. I suppose he’d slake his thirst if he could; pity he’s tethered. Then again, if he were able to roam free nothing would be safe from his cavernous belly.

The curtains haven’t moved again, I see. The light in the upper room has been on for the duration of this enforced sabbatical. I can’t help feeling all is not well in that house; even the phone has remained unanswered.

The goat is busily chewing again; I am a little tired of his constant mandibular activity. The thunderous echoes of my empty belly remind me of my own hunger. The stream of glorious leftovers that I am accustomed to is becoming a distant memory.

In quiet moments I fantasize on one of the fowls fluttering onto the wall, perhaps to cheekily avail themselves of my water supply. A deft thwack of a judiciously-aimed trotter and it would all be over, bar the blood and feathers and licking my lips.

Meanwhile I laze in the morning sun, semi-comatose in my sty, realising that for once we are not the centre of Farmer Jack’s universe. Diddly-squat is about right.

F3 Cycle 38 - REVERIE

2011-07-05T14:52:00.000+01:00

This week's F3 prompt, set by Doc Shaw, was to explore one of the many facets of madness and produce a short work of fiction.

One aspect of insanity that intrigues me is how you would deal with everyone else marching to a different drum-beat than your own - what would it feel like to realise everyone else was behaving or talking in a demented fashion, compared to yourself? Is pure insanity not likely to present itself as completely rational and lucid to the sufferer themselves.....?

(Maybe that explains a few things! ;-p)

Anyway, here's my 'take' on this week's challenge - it doesn't seem right to say my usual 'enjoy'!

REVERIE

The years have faded into one long summer. A time of memories, children running down the grassy banks, tumbling into a heap of sunburnt arms and legs, of grazed knees exposed by warm-weather shorts and a world of adventure to explore in the long vacations.

Then, there are other memories; faded and torn, like old photographs burnt around the edges as if someone had tried to obliterate them.

Forgive me, but the faces and the places are a jumble. They are perfectly stored in my memory but the filing system is not working properly at the moment.

Was it I or my sister who disappeared all those long years ago? I have disjointed images in my brain: a truck pulling up silently to the den we had created, voices, a man’s heavy work boots at my eye line, the view pierced by green shards of grass. I sense a feeling of fear, a smell of dampness and decay and something that makes me afraid of darkness and confined spaces. Are these my memories or someone else’s? Do I remember truth and fact, or do I merely remember someone else’s account.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of my mind lies the answer to what happened all those years ago; suppressed through early adulthood and like the stuff of dreams as I raised my own sweet babies. Then the stroke stopped time and reset my body clock and what had been forgotten was suddenly a reality. In morbid fascination I’ve begun to reconstruct the past, replacing the fabricated memories that were reinforced by well meaning parents and family with the odd flashes of truth that pierce the dark blanket of unknowing.

Today there is something new; a memory of movement, the rumbling sensation of wheels that rattles and vibrates inside my tiny childish frame and the rough feeling of the cover over my face. It smells of grease and petrol, but I cannot move my hands to push it away.

I must hurry and write this down before oblivion descends. They torment me with their lies dressed as truth, dismissing my thoughts as fabrication. I hear the bell ringing again, it always heralds the demise of thoughtful clarity and soon the fog will cloud what little judgement I have. They like to call it Alzheimer’s and treat it with pills and potions, trying to wash away the memories I try to cling to.

But I have noted it all down, in scrawled writing that defies their understanding but which is plain to me. It may be days before I find my book again and then, reading through, discover once more a reality I thought was just a terrifying dream.

Pink and green pills today, a bitter taste I recall, so I have stored them in the rough seam of a pocket, but the subtle feeling of fear that crouches like a demon at the edges of my mind is already evaporating like rising mist. Perhaps they have realised my deceit. I wonder, idly, if they’ve put something in the water instead?

The drowsiness descends, obliterating the rational processes of my mind and wrapping me in a cocoon as readily as they wrap the blanket around me and push my chair out into the sunny day-room to lie semi-comatose alongside the other ‘vegetables’.

Thursday @ 3 - "A Dirty Job"

2011-06-30T15:00:00.006+01:00

Late pulling this one together and struggling with the word-count, but at 333 it still fits my criteria!

No pre-amble this week - just get stuck in!

A DIRTY JOB

Strachan cradled the cardboard warmth of his takeaway latte. The cold city landscape, complete with detritus from the previous night, was not a sight that thrilled his heart.

Despite the day starting like any other, much would have changed by this time tomorrow. Joe Public, shuffling though his day of labour for meagre reward, would not see the relevance of the subtleties that Strachan and countless other officers monitored silently and unseen.

Across the rooftops, others watched and waited; black-hooded men in dark, unobtrusive clothing; shambling tramps who appeared to talk to themselves; bag-ladies pushing trolleys, seemingly cursing the world.

He looked through the telescopic sight and marked the gates to Downing Street. Raising the stock of the rifle he dipped the scope to view the street below, surveying the tripled police guard, dallying a moment to draw a bead on the anti-stab vests they wore and silently pursing his lips to mime bullets flying from the barrel and searing through their body armour. A dark humoured laugh rattled and then died in his throat as he saw the car waived through.

The exchange of affirmations and compliance hissing in his ear was a distraction as he leaned closer, his eyelashes almost catching on the lens as he adjusted the focus. He watched as the car door opened and two figures emerged, his finger resting on the trigger, softly tightening in readiness.

A slight realignment drew the crosshairs into position and as his colleagues played their part, collecting intelligence and passing unseen through the reality that was being played out daily before an unsuspecting world, he pulled out the earpiece and disengaged from the operation.

Life, he reasoned, was a monochrome study with varying shades of grey between the extreme polarities of black and white; much like politics. MI5, at sixes and sevens with itself, blurred the edges even more.

As he found himself straddling those boundaries to obey his spectral masters in their Whitehall labyrinths, Strachan blinked once then squeezed the trigger.

Thursday @ 3 - "What's the Catch?"

2011-06-23T15:00:00.005+01:00

I have absolutely no idea what inspired this week's story other than an image, similar to the picture above, which flashed through my mind the other day. The story sort of wrote itself and with just a few minor alterations, it's on the 300-word limit I give myself. "3", of course, features somewhere in the story.......

Feel free to comment - or join in, why don't you?

WHAT'S THE CATCH?

It all comes down to trust. That few seconds of flying through the air, trusting he’ll catch me; that I’ll be in exactly the right point of the swing’s arc, that my hands will snap-lock around his wrists.

I’ve done this hundreds of times; felt the slap of his fingers copying mine and grasping me at the wrists; his big fingers gripping like a pair of flesh handcuffs.

But this is different.

I recall how he looked at me when I arrived late for warm-up; the giveaway of flushed cheeks as his brother, Bruno, arrived late too.

Swing one, two, drop backwards, my weight on the backs of my knees, arms trailing in the air. Swing one, two, three; release. As I leave the small comfort of the swing I see him reaching out but his eyes are cold.

He knows.

The air rushes between my fingers, like raking my hands through icy water. I hold my breath. Seconds become small eternities, long enough to focus beyond his stare to the third in our triplet; waiting, watching, silently counting, ready to jump forward to take my place from the release.

Then warm hands circle my wrists and snap me back into the present. Gravity’s swing pulls at my shoulder sockets as the vice-grip of the catcher holds my weight. Now, the release.

Instead, he holds tight. My hands are trapped as Bruno launches forwards and I see him grapple with the air, fighting for the hand-holds that would see us exchange places, before I watch him tumbling into deadly blackness.

I hang like a ragdoll in my husband’s grip, remembering his words that first time I agreed to trust him on the trapeze. Tears course down my face as his voice echoes in my mind.

“I’ll never let you go.”

F3 - Cycle 36 - THE BREAKOUT

2011-06-22T13:59:00.000+01:00

This week, the F3 challenge is to write a 'buddy' story with those two sons of fun, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, as the lead characters.

I got to thinking about how those two teamed up in the first place....and (in the words of that comedic raconteur, Bob Newhart) perhaps it might have been.....'something like this....'

THE BREAKOUT

We were in this thing together, but my partner in crime was not coping well with the situation

“We, uh, we gotta get out of here. There must be a way..”

I watched as Jerry tried forcing his way out between the bars. First he slipped his ankle through then concentrated on squeezing up to his thigh but no matter how he wiggled he could only get as far as his butt.

I’d watched this performance for some time, backed up at my end of our cell, now and then taking a swig to satisfy my needs, letting the odd burp escape. Before I’d witnessed this ‘squeeze-and-squash’ attempt, there’d been the ‘throw-your-full-weight’ exercise and my personal favourite, the ‘my-head-must-fit-through-the-bars’ idea. I confess, that was the funniest, seeing Jerry’s frustration as his head had successfully made a bid for freedom only for the rest of his body to not comply.

Watching his facial contortions reflected in the mirror across the hall was entertaining enough, mainly assisted by the soporific properties afforded by the drink in my hand. When he’d finally managed to extricate himself, his head popping like a cork out of a bottle, he’d lain in a heap in the opposite corner with his almost rubber-like features going through their full repertoire as he recovered from his exertions.

I rolled over to him, to give my suggestions on his so-far unsuccessful attempts to escape our joint incarceration.

“You know, buddy, you’re going about this all the wrong way,” I said. A few slaps around the face were required to help him concentrate, then I continued.

“See, you need to get their attention.” Of course, I was referring to the people who run this joint; amongst us inmates we call them the 'nursemaids’.

“What? You mean like this…..” Jerry threw himself down on the ground and started pummelling the floor with his fists and drumming his feet up and down; a class ‘A’ temper tantrum.

I wiped my face in exasperation.

“No, I mean, you gotta use psychology, make them think they’re in charge. You use language they can understand, smile a bit, you know….like this.” I did my best angelic look and blinked a little.

“Oh, you mean …..like this….?” He fixed me with his google eyes and rattled his lips with one of his fingers making infantile noises.

I heaved a sigh of weariness and slapped him on the back, then pulling myself up to my full height I grabbed hold of the bars.

“Watch and learn, buddy boy; watch and learn.”

I took a last swig for courage and called out. The first attempt was unsuccessful, but after shushing Jerry away I tried again, this time crooning a bit of song to add to my salutations.

This prompted a reaction. Footsteps were quickly heard approaching and after a little more conversation I was released from the cell.

“There, there, shhhhhhh – good boy, Dino, who’s a sweetie then – oh, you finished your bottle, diddums? Let’s go get you another one.”

Her words were music to my ears and from my lofty vantage point, nestling my head on Nurse Sandra’s more than ample bosom, I looked down at the scowling visage of the still-confined Jerry in the nursery playpen and winked.

Light Relief and Laughs!

2011-06-21T17:13:00.000+01:00

Working on this week's F3 story ( a 'Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis' inspired tale) I was thinking about Jerry Lewis' voice and you know how your mind runs off at a tangent.......well, I got to thinking about Stan Freberg and some of his comedy sketches.

Here's a couple of my favourites, with a 'Jerry Lewis' sound-alike called Daws Butler. Those of you old enough to remember LAPD's 'Joe Friday' and the radio police procedural series 'Dragnet' (I was rockin' in my crib at the time!) will have more than a little fun with this! And yes, there are some of the original 'Joe Friday' catchphrases woven in!

So, thanks to Youtube - here's 'St. George and the Dragonet' and 'Little Blue Riding Hood'.

Enjoy!

Blooming Marvellous!

2011-06-19T17:31:00.000+01:00

Well, I think the garden is beginning to 'get there'!

As I posted some pics from earlier in the year, when the 'hard landscaping' was under way - here's a few pics from around the 'grounds' (:-p) now that some of the planting is coming on:

....I'm sure I can shoe-horn a few more plants in...!

Thursday @ 3 - "Ruby Slipper Stand-off"

2011-06-16T15:00:00.007+01:00

There are more than a few nods towards one of my favourite films in this little piece for this week's 'Thursday@3' - and it's not the first time it's captured my imagination either, with reference to a previous story

Anyway, at 300 words it's bang on the money.......

'RUBY SLIPPER STAND-OFF'

When that bull-horn sounded and Zeke broke cover I knew things weren’t right. I don’t recall changing sides as being part of the plan and I have more than a sneaking suspicion we’re not in Kansas any more.

Perhaps the notion of streets paved with gold is as phoney as that yellow brick road, but the words ‘big city’ and ‘bright lights’ drew me here. That, and Zeke telling me there were rich pickings for anyone willing to take a risk at ‘Green, Gale & West Investments’.

But, when he pulled the gun on me I didn’t stop to argue; I just logged on with my password and called up the stock portfolio. I never knew he could type so fast one-handed, but then I was more preoccupied with working out if he knew how to use the weapon he was still pointing in the general direction of the rest of the staff and at me in particular.

Someone must have tripped the silent alarm because all too soon the steadily growing discordant tones of sirens and screeching brakes announced the arrival of several squad cars. Then the loud, electronic echo urged us to give up and come out with our hands held high.

Zeke didn’t even flinch. Cool. I’ll give him that.

“Pay no attention to the men beyond the blinds,” he muttered, his eyes never leaving the screen as he manipulated funds into his own off-shore petty-cash tin.

He’s heartless. This whirlwind romance was a mistake, anyone with half a brain could see that and if I had the courage I’d knock that gun out of his hand

So here I am, sitting under a desk metaphorically clicking my heels with New York’s finest lined up outside, wondering just what will happen when the balloon goes up?

Thursday @ 3 - "Queen of Mean!"

2011-06-09T15:00:00.017+01:00

One of my trusty commenters flung down a gauntlet (or was it a skate?) of a challenge recently, suggesting I concoct a story incorporating the following words:

ice dancing, triple Salchows, and triple toe loops,

So, rising to the bait, I give you 3 paragraphs, each of 33 words - here y'go!

QUEEN OF MEAN!

You don’t feel the pain, even when you land on your ass. At least it’s not a cold ice rink. With roller-derby, when flesh hits the deck it’s more of a friction burn.

You just have to get up and get on. There’s no points for artistic impression or technical dexterity, even if some of the pile-ups are more spectacular than triple Salchows or toe loops.

When Kevin shouts at us from the dug-out, “This ain’t ice dancing, ladies!” he reminds us why we’re here. It ain’t no Sunday school picnic, either - worlds away from my library ‘day-job’!

( and for those of you who are interested, this is based on a TRUE story!)

...and if you want to leave a comment, that would be good!

(Or maybe even join in and submit your own 'Thursday@3' story?)

F3 - Cycle 34 - WHY IRISH EYES ARE SMILING

2011-06-05T17:09:00.000+01:00

To celebrate the 'lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer', Doc came up with a weird and wonderful collection of words for this week's wacky F3 challenge:

banana, iguana, elbow, flaming, and pogostick.

He invited us to leap from the restraints and shackles of conformity and release our inner absurdity, together with a side-order of the bizarre! Well, this is what you get from me.....

.....please, enjoy! ;-)

WHY IRISH EYES ARE SMILING (THE REAL REASON!)

Watching the TV reports from Monygall I’d given a wry smile as Barack sipped it down, good and straight. The master of diplomacy, he’d hidden his inner feelings but Michelle had other ideas and her face gave the game away.

To be sure, I’d give them points for at least trying. A few days earlier, Liz had just smiled enigmatically and declined a pint of the ‘black stuff’ when it was shoved under her nose. She wasn’t going to give the media any chance of witnessing HM with a white moustache, no sir.

So, at the end of her tour of the Guinness factory, when one of her entourage quietly asked for a ‘carryout’ I was happy to oblige; seems the lady has taste, after all. It got me to thinking, though. Shame she can’t let her hair down in public, poor lass. I bet a few pints and she’d blend in very well with the festive atmosphere and the 'craic'.

I wasn't altogether surprised then, a few weeks later, to witness something a little unusual during the big procession at the start of the Street Performance World Championships, here in Dublin. Amid the artistes giving of their best, who was that old gent giving a ‘fillip’ to the old fire-eating trick by consuming a flaming banana? Surely not - I thought carriage-driving was more his style?

Still, if he was here, then it stood to reason she'd be here too. It gave me an idea and I ducked into Fitzgerald's before I headed over the Liffey. The crowds were jostling my elbow, but I’ve handled enough pints in my time to be able to make sure I don’t spill a drop of ‘black gold’, so I eased my way through with two glasses and singled out the diminutive colleen getting into the swing of things and shimmying those hips like an iguana.

I stepped over and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Here, get that down you, lass!”

Her silver hair, immaculately coiffed, shone like a halo in the sunshine; it suited her far better than any diamond tiara she might have had dredged up from her collection in the Tower.

She spun round and there was something mischievous in those sparkling eyes of hers as she graciously accepted the glass I offered her and swiftly downed half a pint in one go.

Then, nodding towards one of the attractions, she wiped a gloved hand across her mouth to mop up the residue as she handed the half empty glass back to me with a comment I shall take to my grave.

“Excellent! Would you mind holding this, one’s awf to have a go at that!”

The last I saw of HM Queen Elizabeth that day was watching her sporadically bounce up and down through the crowds, hopping down O’Connell Street on a pogo stick.

They say it has restorative powers and until now I’d have said that was just a marketing tool, but perhaps there is something magical about Ireland’s most famous export after all!

Thursday @ 3 - "The Water Carrier"

2011-06-02T15:00:00.002+01:00

Watching rainwater collect in an old bucket inspired this little ditty - exactly 300 words to conjure up an image....

THE WATER CARRIER

You could hear him every day soon after dawn making his way along the dusty track. The gentle lapping noise of the water carried in the pails, strung out from the yoke that rested on his bony shoulders, became a natural rhythm section that played counterpoint to the slap-slap of his sandalled feet.

Lo-djing would make this journey several times a day, but this first outing would inevitably be accompanied by the high-pitched resonance of his voice as he sang his morning litany. The unintelligible words would be lost on me; although I had lived in this remote part of China for over three months it was a dialect that I’d never heard anywhere else.

I reflected on my time here in this small village, somehow lost in the medieval ages, virtually bypassed by technology and escaping most of the directives of the ruling communist state. These were simple people, living largely as their ancestors had done. Generation succeeding generation; skills and genealogies passed from father to son, mother to daughter.

In the newer towns there was the odd infiltration from the outside world; the ubiquitous TV aerial, multi-strung telephone wires. Here, in the hillsides, the ageless wonder of terraced rice-paddies continued to be worked and tended in the time-honoured fashion.

As Lo-djing approached, the fanfare of his salutation carrying on the breeze, I raised my camera and thought again about the anachronism about to be captured on film. Even in the twenty-first century, though his entire world encompassed the distance between the spring and the small areas of cultivation he serviced, the ancient water carrier still had his place; his dignity and status.

Through the lens I caught the smile of peaceful content on his face and wondered, not for the first time, who was the richer among us?

F3 - Cycle 33 - "The Bilderberg Request"

2011-05-31T19:22:00.000+01:00

It's been some time since I last took part in one of the F3 challenges - too often I've been out of time to get my entry in!

This week, we were asked to consider writing about conspiracies - the theories or the theorists!

I'm drawn to a notion often referred to as the 'New World Order' - whereby the clandestine meddling of a secretive cohort drawn from the worlds of commerce, finance and politics determine global policies behind closed doors, to their singular mutual benefit.

This work of fiction has been gnawing away at me demanding to be written so here's my contribution, dead on the nail at the wordcount limit of 1,000!

(.....and if things go very quiet around here after this and I don't put up any posts.....then perhaps I may have got a bit too close to the truth and touched a nerve!! :-o )

THE BILDERBERG REQUEST

It was a plain sealed envelope. Nothing marked it out as being special save for the small watermark on the reverse: a gothic ‘B’.

“It arrived a day or so ago,” said Beardsley. “Hand delivered by persons unknown.” He sat further back into his chair and watched as I studied the fine, crisp folds of paper, turning the envelope over slowly in my hands.

The carefully written script in black ink addressed the letter simply with the words “Sir Henry Beardsley”; no address, not even a flourish underlining the name, just meticulously neat copper-plate handwriting.

“Why didn’t you open it?” I said quietly.

“I know what it contains,” he replied, curtly. “That is to say, I know the nature of its contents, though perhaps not the exact wording.”

I looked down at the letter.

“You’re sure it isn’t a hoax?” Considering our unlikely and chequered past it could well be a ruse, engineered to blow up in my face, metaphorically speaking. I wouldn’t be the first journalist to have been used and abused by the great and the good for their own devious ends.

“We wouldn’t want to end up with egg on our faces,” I continued. If it was a hoax, I wanted to make sure Beardsley understood exactly what the repercussions would be for himself. If I went down, I’d take him with me; you don’t ghost write someone’s autobiography without lifting a few stones and finding the odd unsavoury item or two buried there.

“Of course it isn’t a hoax!” steamed Beardsley, contemptuously. The irritation that clearly vexed the man was evident by the colour rising in his rather corpulent cheeks. Then again, I thought, it could just be hypertension.

Before he could give his assent I decisively turned the letter over and slipped a paperknife along the fold, cutting open the envelope. Beardsley leaned forwards in his chair, a sheen of perspiration just breaking out on his forehead, highlighted by the desk lamp that sat between us.

I carefully withdrew the single sheet of folded paper. As I held it up to the light I saw, once again, the monograph watermark replicated on the page, though larger than its counterpart on the envelope.

“Well?” asked Beardsley, his curiosity getting the better of him as he waited for my opinion.

I raised my eyes slightly from the page and gave an imperceptible nod. It was hard to determine from Beardsley’s choked response whether he was elated or terrified but I returned to the hand written script and tried to ignore the audible consternation that issued from across the desk.

The letter contained details of a specific venue and date, requesting the attendance of Sir Henry Beardsley. As letters go, I felt it left a lot to be desired; there was no description of what exactly was to take place on the date in question, nor any indication who else would be present. Indeed, on first glance it seemed a totally innocuous piece of correspondence. That is, until I read the last line. In place of a simple signature, there was just one word: Bilderberg.

I worked hard to keep the paper still, not allowing it to shake in my hand and thereby give away too much, but all the same I knew that I held what was, to writers in my preferred field of investigative journalism, the equivalent of the Holy Grail.

I passed the letter silently over to Beardsley. He grasped it hesitantly, more like a poisoned chalice than my exalted acclaim of it, then slumped back into his chair.

I could see why he seemed less than delighted. I had done some research on the Bilderberg Group in the past and the little I had managed to glean on their activities seemed to me to be in directly opposite proportion to the control which they exerted over a diverse and complex series of worldwide syndicates and conglomerations.

Their gatherings, or ‘conferences’ as they preferred to term them, were not conducted entirely clandestinely. They were announced in various forms throughout the media and attendees were selected based on their backgrounds in commerce, finance and politics but there were never any subsequent reports as to what had been discussed, nor still the extent of their influence. No resolutions were proposed, or issues voted upon. It was only retrospectively that seismic shifts in the global economy could tentatively be traced back to former attendees.

To be invited to attend was an honour but, like many closed societies, to refuse could be political and financial suicide. To accept, however, could incur an even greater cost.

I looked across at Beardsley. He was somewhat on the horns of a dilemma: whether to decline and thereby find his commercial and financial career thwarted and destroyed by the long-reaching tentacles of the ‘Group’; or accept, thereby to be forever shackled to the concerns and objectives by which Bilderberg controlled global issues, regardless of any possible personal disagreement.

It could not be proved, as yet, but dissenters were likely to be ‘removed’, permanently; I had been investigating the demise of certain former high-ranking officials from various global financial institutions who appeared to be linked and whose names had appeared on previous lists of Bilderberg delegates.

Now, as I looked across at the worried features of Sir Henry, I wondered how I could ever persuade him to accept given the ultimate price he might one day have to pay, or else ignore both me and his own conscience.

And what if, on agreeing to join such a coterie of shadowy manipulators, he turned the tables on me? Their corrupt abuse of power could easily reach out and curtail my activities. A simple ‘accident’ would not be difficult for them to arrange.

We sat in silence for some minutes, each independently reviewing our options, until Beardsley coughed the phlegm from his throat.

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, and in those three words he sealed our fate.

Thursday @ 3 - "Rhapsody in Red"

2011-05-26T15:00:00.034+01:00

Back again with another little tale - this one concerns three characters, but only one speaks!

Bang on target at exactly 300 words, some of you may have come across Paul Hollis before....enjoy!

RHAPSODY IN RED

Melody and mayhem; that’s about the size of it. When I’m out on the 'day' job I have to concentrate; I’m restricted by professional formalities, codes of conduct, that sort of thing.

Here in the lab, however, I can relax a little and let my hair down, metaphorically speaking of course. The years have taken their toll on a hairline that has receded far over my head. I’m a long way from the young Paul Hollis, fresh-faced student of decay, detritus and all aspects of forensic medicine.

Anyway like I said, when I’m here alone working on 'personal' projects after-hours it’s pretty much my ball game, so – on with the music. I like the creative energy and no-one argues with my choice; it’s just me and the cadavers.

Stripping out veins is a particularly intricate job, so I like the steady rhythms to keep me on task. Especially with this particular case. There’s such a satisfaction in seeing a job through to the bitter end, don’t you agree?

Mervyn, here, for instance: start to finish it’s been three weeks, from initial consultation to administering the lethal compounds and his subsequent demise.

Of course, there was a slight delay which caused a minor complication as I found myself with divided loyalties. Felicity wasn’t at all as Mervyn had led me to believe. In fact, I found her quite.... intoxicating. Enough to change sides.

So, it’s poor Mervyn on the slab instead. I have the money he paid up front as well as the wife he planned to have despatched, together with her delightful trust fund. That’s what tipped the balance.

Meanwhile, the tempo’s rising to a crescendo of over-the-top drumbeats and sweeping arpeggios and as the table runs crimson it’s a mixture of Gershwin and gore; a rhapsody in red, not blue.

Paul Hollis has appeared before in 'ON THE JOB' and 'ALL IN THE DETAIL'

LOST ON THE ROCK 2011

2011-05-25T12:44:00.000+01:00

Excuse me if I have a shameless moment of of going 'Wheeeeeeeee! but it's not every day I manage to win something (even if it's 3rd place!)

To see what I'm on about, go to Alan Davidson's blog to read my story, or visit Laurita Miller's blog Calling Shotgun to read the embarrassing accompanying interview!

Comments (assuming Blogger will be playing ball today!) are welcome at either site - or even here!

(Thankyou - moment of 'glory' abating now.....!)

Lost and Found!

2011-05-22T17:29:00.000+01:00

Over at Alan Davidson's blog the results have been announced for the 'Lost on the Rock 2011' fiction contest.

I am, by turns, both humbled and gobsmacked to learn that my 'Lost...' entry, 'Oubliette' has been found worthy to receive 3rd prize!!

My story will be posted on Alan's blog on Wednesday, 25th May and an emarrassing interview will appear on Laurita Miller's Calling Shotgun blog the same day; the full round-up is here

I'm really looking forward to reading all the other stories - some authors' names are familiar but there are also new accquaintances to make!

So, starting tomorrow, please make your way over to these blogs and check out the writers and their work - and of course, please feel free to leave comments.

Big thanks, also, to Alan, Laurita and all those involved in promoting, organising and judging the contest. Bravo, chaps!

Thursday @ 3 - 'Fat Lady Singing'

2011-05-19T15:00:00.009+01:00

A few days ago I woke up with the number '3' on my mind. I began noticing things to do with the same number - 3 canisters (tea, coffee, sugar); 3 things hanging on the wall (towel, teatowel and ovengloves) - even looking outside: 3 birds on the patio....and that was all before I'd got as far as putting the kettle on for the first cuppa of the day!

So, following on from David Barber's recent numerically-inspired post, I decided to set myself a challenge - every Thursday, at 3pm (UK time), I'll post something which features the number three. It could be three sentences or paragraphs; or something with a three-word title; or '3' in the title itself - who knows?

I also plan to keep it short - so there'll be a maximum word count of 300.

However, to get the ball rolling I decided the opening story of 'Thursday @ 3' should be special - so, in 333 words, here it is!

FAT LADY SINGING

As he hit the stairs to the seventh floor Dan Hiskie leaned back against the wall letting gravity take control and slumped to his haunches. Running up the last flight had winded him yet he knew this was but a brief respite.

Peering up the stairwell, he guessed he was nearing his quarry; Maguire had a penchant for Jimmy Cagney films and this was the tallest building on the block. He should just wait and let the man have his ‘Top of the world, Ma!’ moment of misguided glory but that wasn’t the way this would play out. Maguire had to pay. Pay for shooting the pretty bank teller, leaving her with a third eye in the middle of her forehead. Pay for the school kids his getaway car mowed down with unstopping indifference. Most of all, pay for gunning down his partner, Eric Casey, in a hail of bullets when one would have got the job done.

Hiskie could hear the sirens growing closer. Too late. Too late to save Casey or the call all police officer’s wives dreaded.

He looked down at the dark vermilion smear on his jacket and red hot agony flashed through his arm again as he forced himself into a stance. It spread into his chest and he realised the bullet had cut clear through his arm and lodged in his side.

Music suddenly flooded the stairwell, accompanied by raised voices and a single gunshot. He stumbled onwards, ignoring the pain, gripping the banister until he reached the half-open door of the apartment where Maguire stood over the prone body of the elderly occupant.

Without hesitation, Hiskie raised his weapon. Too late for reasoning; too late for Mirandizing. He let off a triple staccato report and watched as Maguire swayed drunkenly before staggering to the window and pitching into his own black eternity.

Over.

No, not quite, thought Hiskie.

He fell to his knees and the sound of Maria Callas from the radio filled his dulling mind.

Been quiet here...

2011-05-16T21:40:00.000+01:00

....but I've been mulling over a wee idea.

I have something up my sleeve - but you'll have to wait until Thursday afternoon to find out more...! ;-)

Bridport Prize 2011!

2011-05-09T10:56:00.000+01:00

Just a few weeks left to enter the Bridport Prize short fiction and poetry competition!

It's not just about the money (but that can't be ignored!) - winning entries will be included in the annual anthology - read the success stories!

Entry fee is £5 per flash fiction, £6 per poem or £7 per story (open to international entrants - see the website for entry charges)

SHORT STORIES: 1st prize = £ 5000 (approx. 8000 US$, 5900 € )
POEMS: 1st Prize = £ 5000 (approx. 8000 US$, 5900 €)
FLASH FICTION: 1st Prize =£ 1000 (approx. 1600 US$, 1180 €)

Closing date 30th June 2011.(24.00 MIdnight GMT)

I'm up for it - are you?

Aaargh! I've been tagged!

2011-05-05T19:01:00.000+01:00

Apparently there is an outbreak of online blog-tag - and I've just been 'got'!

The perpetrator was Jenny over at The Modest Peacock - see, this is what happens when you join a blog challenge, you rove around other blogs, get to know a few new people, see what they're up to - then, when you're not looking, they drop something like this on you!

I jest :-)

I am delighted to have been tagged, (thanks Jenny, you'll keep!!) but the questions I now have to answer were quite difficult, so here goes:

If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?
My wedding – it all happened so fast, and unlike the Royal Wedding there weren’t constant replays!

If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?
Can I tweak this a little and take passengers back with me in time? I wish my hubby and kids could have met my mother who died when I was a teenager.

What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?
I have no idea – but someone who has to keep plates spinning, perhaps? None come to mind, presently! Ideas, anyone?

If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?
Hypothetically speaking, of course, probably the tax man!

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.
Starting things without being realistic about the time and effort required - and the probable outcome.

Describe yourself in one word.
Eclectic!

Describe the person who named you in this meme in one word.
Good hearted! :-)

Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.
It’s an outlet and platform for writing.

So, having survived the ordeal I now have to ~~select at least three other victims~~ choose at least 3 people to send this meme to, and then inform them:

Rachel at Go Placidly...

Yvette at In So Many Words

and finally - (because I haven't seen him blogging for a few days and also 'payback' for me beta-reading his latest novel!)

Paul at Paul Grzegorzek's Thriller and Crime Fiction World

There - 'done-deal'! (phew, that's me off the hook! ;-p)

Belated hopping of the blogs!

2011-05-04T15:31:00.000+01:00

.....now I've recovered from A-Z busyness I realised I didn't load the 'hop code'! (actually, I did try on Sunday but it didn't seem to want to work, and then 'normal' life has taken over so I'm just getting around to it, now!)

Anyway, my bloggy friends, I hope to get round to a few more of you now. Many thanks to all who've dropped by here already - I will get to you, I promise!!

DONE AND DUSTED

2011-05-01T15:57:00.000+01:00

Well, that's the April A-Z challenge over for 2011! There's a sense of relief tinged with a bit of sadness - relief, because it's been quite a feat to think up and create something new and different for each letter (thank goodness for pre-scheduled posts!); and sadness, because the cameraderie of us 'all in this together' is at an end.

But is it?

I tried to look into at least five different blogs every day and leave comments and mostly I succeeded. Some were blogs where my interest was piqued enough to want to 'follow' - some have already become fixtures on my blogroll! So, what started as a chance to nosey through other people's blogs has grown into a desire to keep up with the musings of these hitherto unknown 'blogger-friends'. So, thankyou A-Z, for broadening my horizons and 'growing' my followers, too! (more than doubled!)

Thanks, too, for the wonderful 'surprise me' button - it was always an adventure to see where I'd land next! :-)

I'd also like to thank all who stopped by to view the eclectic posts on my blog - and for their kind (and constructive!) comments!

Congratulations to all who participated and made it through to 'Z' - I hope those who didn't succeed (for whatever reason) will be inspired to try again next year.

Most of all, thankyou to those who promoted, encouraged and facilitated the whole event and generally kept us on the right path throughout - esp. to Arlee Bird, for all your positive support!

So, the next few days are going to seem strange without the motivation of creating a new post for the challenge......but I'm sure I'll come up with something! (I guess you'll have to watch this space to find out!)

;-)

SueH

Z is for.....'ZERO HERO' (flash fiction)

2011-04-30T00:30:00.011+01:00

So, we approach the finishing line! The April A-Z challenge is complete - wasn't sure I'd make it to the end, but here we are: 'Z'-day!

I've seen a lot of blogs and met some new and interesting bloggers on the journey - I'll save most of my comments for the May 2nd 'post-mortem' on Arlee Bird's blog!

I have to say, I admire those who had a theme and carried it through the full 26 letters - I just had an eclectic mix of fact, fiction and fancy! (although, I did consider writing 26 new stories.....maybe next time!)

I had planned a few other ideas for 'Z' but a couple of days ago I woke up with the word 'Zero' in my head. It rhymed with 'hero' and my brain went off on a tangent.......so, to end my A-Z challenge, I decided to create one more piece of flash fiction. Here you go!

ZERO HERO

It’s times like these you always get that itch you want to scratch. Like the itch I feel right now, around my nose. No amount of facial gymnastics seems to want to shift it. No. It’s hanging in there, right until the bitter end.

I would scratch it, oh, how I’d love to, but my hands are kinda 'busy' right at this moment. Hmmm...red runs here....black disappears around the back...

No good; gotta deal with this scratch. If I move slowly perhaps I can raise my shoulder and.....ah, that’s better! Phew! Right, let’s see what’s happening around the back.

Hmmm....that’s interesting! Now, are you a real 'dummy' wire, or are you just pretending? Gotta make up my mind - the clock’s ticking, literally.

Not that I can hear it, mind you; all I can hear is the whooshing sound in my ears as my heart pumps blood around my body. Surprisingly, it’s beating its monotonous, regular rhythm; strong and steady. Until I make a mistake, that is. Then, I think there’ll be an altogether different sound. Let’s not go there, shall we?

Cutting it fine, Jack. Going right to the wire. Again. Yup. Fifth time in a row. That’s why they call me the ‘Zero Hero’. Hah! They really think I wanna dice with death and hang about until the last minute before I pull the wire? I could say those last few times I just got lucky, is all. Lucky that I pulled the right wires in the nick of time and the bomb didn’t go off. But I don’t think of it as luck. When it’s my time to go, I’ll be ready.

‘Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door....” Thankyou, Mr Dylan, I don’t need you buzzing in my head right now. Not that knocking on heaven’s door is such a bad thing – I’m prepared – it’s the messy business of dying that bothers me. Especially in my line of work.

Man, this one’s a real doozy. Well, I can’t wait, lives depend on it. Me? I’m on borrowed time already; I’ve used up more ‘lives’ than your average cat.

Here goes.

Red, I win; black, I -

Phew.....don’t die today.

Seems You still have more for me to do in this life, God? Catch you later, then!

Y is for.....Yarn

2011-04-29T00:30:00.002+01:00

Yarns interest me - both the 'physical' stuff (as in knitting, etc) and also in the sense of 'storytelling'! ;-)

Silly though it sounds, I can go quite weak at the knees when allowed to roam around yarn stores! On a recent trip to Maine, my daughter and I (and one of the cousins we were staying with!) visited Tess Designer Yarns - an amazing emporium of what I can only describe as 'yarn-heaven'!
It was a veritable feast for the eyes with rich and jewelled hues of cascading yarns! See what I mean:

....and down the next aisle it was:

It was a very cold day and the dear lady was about to shut up shop but allowed us in. An hour and a half later, we took our leave. (We won't go into exactly how much $$'s exchanged hands.......but the bags were bulging when we finally left!)

My own yarn 'stash' (believe me, every knitter has one!) has now been 'corralled' from it's various repositories (in bags and boxes, in cupboards and sheds) and re-housed in my 'newly accquired' craft room (aka son's former bedroom!) in large see-though plastic crates (so I can see instantly what goodies are in there!)

But I'm not quite as bad as this:

....and that's only part of what must surely be the
world's largest private yarn stash!

As to the 'other' kind of yarn (the literary one) well, daughter and I have a dream of opening a bookshop/woolshop/teashop - three different 'bites' at the cherry would seem to be a viable prospect in these days of businesses failing due to the recession. We have it all planned (in our minds, anyway!) so that as well as opening during the day for purchasing, we'd have it open in the evenings as a venue for writers' and book groups, storytellers and poetry slams ......and what else could we call it but.....

'RIPPING YARNS' !

Oh well, we can dream can't we?

(investors walk this way, if you please!)

X is for.......X-stitch!

2011-04-28T00:30:00.004+01:00

...or more commonly called "counted-thread cross stitch".

I've done a number of these over the years - they are mind-numblingly easy to do, perfect relaxation, with something to show for your efforts when finished!

The most labour-intensive one was a Millenium sampler, bought as a kit by my in-laws for my birthday - finally completed a couple of years later!

I have all sorts of other little pieces of x-stitch around the house, but my favourite is this one, called 'Glacier Bay'

Worked on 32-count (threads per inch!) evenweave linen with stitches so tiny it could only be done in natural light, I have to admit it looks stunning. One friend even thought it was a photograph until she got up close to it!

It's been a while since I last did any and having thought about it for this post I'm itching to have a go at something else, but this time I'm going to create something new and unique - most definitely NOT from a kit!

I 'inherited' several large boxes of embroidery silks from my husband's Grandmother some years ago, so I have a plan to make 'in-roads' into that particular stockpile! Just need the idea for a picture.......!

W is for ... 'Waiting' (flash fiction)

2011-04-27T00:30:00.005+01:00

Another short story, inspired by the opening sentence, as part of a weekly fiction challenge last year.

This was quite hard to write - difficult to 'imagine' yourself in this person's shoes. However, with a lot of these fiction challenges the prompt usually conjures up an image in my mind and as soon as I read this sentence I was already there in Frank's office.......

WAITING

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk. It was hard not to look but I was fighting that urge because looking at it might finally make me face up to something I’d been tying to avoid for the last few months.

“Frank, I need you to look at this for me.” The policeman’s voice was firm but there was a kindly edge to it. Or maybe I’d just grown used to it after all this time.

Since Debbie had gone missing six and a half months ago Detective Sergeant Peter Guidrey had been in contact with me in some form or another every few days. Lately he’d taken to calling into my office, sometimes with possible news, sometimes just touching base, as if to say ‘We’re still on the case’. It was a kindly gesture, rather than being summoned yet again to the police station.

In the first harrowing hours of her disappearance I’d seen the finger of suspicion waver in my direction. That was normal I suppose. I’ve read somewhere about the number of abduction cases involving a known family member, usually a parent, often a male. My alibi had checked out, but I wonder even to this day, if somewhere lurking below the surface of formal Police procedure, they still suspect my involvement.

Peter pushed the photo towards me, prompting a reaction. Trouble is, the reaction I might give would not help matters.

“Please, Frank. Let’s settle this. Take a look.”

Settle it? Doesn’t he understand how much I want it to be settled? To see my beautiful Debbie come springing into the room in all her teenage youthfulness, with her music playing way too loud and her pleading for a newer, smarter phone…..?

He doesn’t understand the hours I lay awake at night going over and over in my head the last time I saw Debbie. I’d dropped her at the station. She was meeting her friends and they were going into the city to shop for new clothes and spend far too much money and hang out together and whatever it is that teenage girls get up to these days.

I should have waited; made sure some of her friends were there, but she’d waved me away. I shouldn’t have looked at my watch. Perhaps that’s why she told me to go. She’s a good kid. She knows the business pays the bills and the pressure to keep the whole thing afloat takes every minute I have. I should have waited.

So when Peter asked me to look at the photo and settle it I really wanted to, believe me. But I also want to rage and curse because my little girl is missing. She walked out of our lives and just disappeared. No trace. No explanation.

Sometimes I imagine she’s walking down a street, carefree and happy. Other times, the imagination turns the opposite way, to a darker reality. In the moments when hope is at its lowest ebb I secretly wonder where her body lies, her soul crying for us to bring her home.

“Frank?”

My attention returns at the sound of Peter’s voice and my eyes focus on the white edge of the photo. I take a deep breath and reach out, my fingers tracing the corner of the print as I pull it towards me, like all the others I’ve pulled close to scrutinise before.

Slowly, I force my eyes to focus on the image. The air in my chest is frozen, hard, a leaden weight. Such beautiful hair. A cute, button nose. A fine bone structure. The picture blurs as my eyes fill with tears. The photo is obviously post mortem.

The heavy weight in my lungs escapes in one long, low groan as I push the photograph back.

“No,” I say quietly. It is not my beloved Debbie. Part of me is relieved. Glad to see that this is not my daughter, and yet somewhere her own parents will see this picture and their world of restrained agony will explode.

My relief is tinged with the pain of yet another day of uncertainty, another monochrome day in a world of technicolour, of putting one foot in front of another and working every hour God sends because to be at home is to be close to all that reminds me of Debbie. Stephanie, her mother, understands. She copes in her own way, seeking comfort from alcohol-induced inertia. What right have I to take that from her?

“No, it’s not Debbie,” I say, looking back towards the policeman who must now go back and cross her name off a list of missing girls, before the photo is circulated to other grieving, waiting families.

Peter retrieves the image and straightens up. We’ve had this conversation before and he knows not to pressure me to be sure.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” he replies. “You know we have to check each unidentified victim.” The word ‘victim’ cuts yet another sore in my heart.

“We will find her, I promise you,” he says as he turns towards the door. It’s a hollow promise, one he probably will never be able to make good on, but still he makes it, each and every bittersweet time we meet.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement as he opens the door and leaves, curbing my gut feeling that we will go through this charade again, sooner or later.

The clock has moved on ten minutes.

Another six hundred seconds of waiting.

As the empty, cavernous, fear of unknowing devours me yet again, how many more will there be, I wonder, until my daughter finally comes home?

V is for... Vapour trails

2011-04-26T00:30:00.000+01:00

Here in the UK we have had almost unprecedented fine weather during April. The grey skies have disappeared for a while and there has been uninterrupted blue sky - the like of which is not usually seen here until Summer (and even then, it seems to be fleeting!)

So, sitting in my chair in the garden, wondering what to write for the letter 'V', I was gazing up into the blue for inspiration - and it arrived!

Scribbled on the sky were the vapour trails left by aircraft - some still sharp lines, with a tiny silver 'writing point' moving silently across the heavens; others 'feathered' and fuzzy, blown by the high-altitude air movement.

In history, this is a recent phenomenon - for countless centuries the skies were the domain of only natural cloud formations: cirrus, cumulus, nimbo-stratus....

The aerial 'dog-fights'of WW2 left hideous etchings on the skies - but even they inspired art.

Paul Nash 'Battle of Britain'

...and the real thing!

Battle of the Bulge, Europe 25/12/1944

Now, as I look back up at the sky, the earlier vapour trails I studied have almost disappeared, literally 'airbrushed' from existance!

U is for ....Unforgettable!

2011-04-25T00:30:00.006+01:00

We all have moments (treasured, or otherwise!) in our lives that are unforgettable.

Alongside the day I got married and the days our children were born (the first arriving 11 weeks early and catching us on the hop! :-o) one of my most unforgettable days occurred last year when I got to do some 'Stunt Driving'!

(yeah - I could have used this for 'S' but I already had something else planned for that letter!)

I'd always wanted to have a go at handbrake turns and 'wheelies' - so last June my family arranged for me to do a one-day Stunt Driving course at Northampton International Raceway, a few miles away from our home.

I'd decided that if I was going to (potentially) risk life and limb then someone should benefit from that and so I did the six-point challenge as a sponsored event to raise funds for the local Air Ambulance (also handy, I figured, if a stunt went wrong!)

I'm only 5'3" and at the time I worked in a library so it was also a bit of stereotype-busting - library workers, boring? ;-p

It all got a bit 'real' when I'd signed in and had to get changed into a fireproof driving suit and wave goodbye to my husband and kids as they were ushered off to the spectator's enclosure.

No turning back now! (gulp!)

There were six stunts to learn and accomplish - here's the proof! (OK, so maybe I was a bit wary, but at least I can say I did it!)

1. Handbrake turn:

2. 'J' turn (reverse at speed, throw the car through 180deg and drive off again):

3. 'wheelie' a transit van:

4. 'double-decker' slalom (one car welded on top of another, the upper one controls steering, the bottom one controls power):

This was my personal favourite!!

5. 'push-me-pull-you' obstacle course (fronts of two cars welded together - two drivers, two gearboxes and two steering wheels!)

...and finally,

6. the 'action speed and shoot chase' (chasing a car round a course and firing a paintgun)! Welcome to the world's slowest car chase ;-p - that course was scary with sand-traps everywhere and elevated cambers that threatened to roll the car if you went too fast!

It was an excellent and most unforgettable day! And I came away with a prize - for the 'push-me-pull-you obstacle course' - see, slow and cautious wins the day as my co-driver team mate and I picked up the only run of the day without incurring any penalties! :-)

Easter Sunday - 'The Birdcage'

2011-04-24T07:22:00.000+01:00

Today is the day Christians all over the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

So many people have tried to convey this in countless ways: music, art, dance, acting......

Here's one I'd like to share - the Skit Guys demonstrate the sacrifice of Jesus - in rather an unusual way!

In amongst the chocolate eggs and general holiday atmosphere, I hope you'll spare time to watch this!

HAPPY EASTER! :-)

T is for ....Television Comedy

2011-04-23T00:30:00.005+01:00

My favourite TV sit-com of all time has to be 'The Good Life'! Any of you reading this from outside the UK may not be aware of this TV series but it was a real gem.

First broadcast on the BBC in the 1970's, it centres on a couple called Tom and Barbara Good who embark on a different way of life - hence the title.

With Tom reaching his 40th birthday he yearns to slip loose the shackles of work and they resolve to become self-sufficient. They dig up their immaculate front and back gardens and plant vegetables, accquire some livestock and rise to the challenge of 'make do and mend'. All this in the days before most of us even knew about recycling!

Their extremely well-heeled next door neighbours, Margo and Jerry Leadbetter, find their friendship stretched almost to breaking point by the couple's 'alternative' lifestyle. In fact, snobbish Margo becomes the butt of many of the Good's jokes!

Tom is a bit of an 'armchair revolutionary' - he has big ideas, but usually poor Barbara has to bear the brunt of things.

This is my favourite clip - their telephone service is terminated and an engineer removes the phone. At about two and a half minutes into the clip - he utters an immortal line which, in today's world of mobile phones, seems even more humorous than when it was first written. (If you can hang on to the end of the clip, watch as the 'worm turns' and Barbara blows her top!)

If you ever get the chance to watch any of the series you are in for a treat !

(YouTube seems to have most of it, anyway!)

S is for Sacrifice

2011-04-22T00:30:00.013+01:00

Today of all days seems the right time to re-post this story. Although I wrote it last year, it's still appropriate, I feel, on this particular and special Friday.

FRIDAY, FRIDAY

I’m cold.

Despite the pain I’m in it’s strange, but I can feel the cold. Like when you sweat and feel that coolness on your skin as it evaporates.

I can feel that, now. But it’s not sweat. It’s blood.

There are so many puncture wounds and rips in my flesh that at times I can’t really tell exactly where the pain is coming from.

My muscles ache. I want to lie down and rest but they won’t let me. Just when I think they’ve finished they start all over again. But I know this is just the beginning.

What a difference a week makes. A few days ago I was in a very different place. Not geographically. In fact, I was just a few hundred yards from this building. But it was a world away from the present reality.

That was when people wanted to be with me. I had some very good friends, but this – this has driven most of them away. The fear of this happening to them has made them run.

It’s dark. There are still a few hours to go before daylight. More time to rip more flesh.

It could have been so different. But this is all part of the plan. I can’t change it. I can't back out now. I don’t want to, even with all this pain and terror. It is…..necessary.

It’s tempting knowing that I could clap my hands and have done with it. If it was just me, perhaps I would. But it isn’t just me. And so much depends on carrying this through, right to the bitter end.

I can hear them coming. What’s already gone is nothing to what’s coming up, I know that. But I have to look beyond it.

The pain will pass.

Eventually.

They only see the here and now, but I know the bigger picture. They think this will finish it. How wrong can they be?

It’s Friday.

But Sunday’s coming.

R is for ....Rugby

2011-04-21T00:30:00.008+01:00

No, not the game, but the town where the game was invented!

Rugby lies to the east of the county of Warwickshire, right in the heart of England and is where I was born and raised. Having moved to London to work, I returned to my roots over twenty years ago, bringing my husband and our two children – so Rugby is very much ‘home’!

So allow me to share with you a few pictures and facts!

The game of Rugby was ‘created’ in 1832 when one of the pupils at the public (fee paying) Rugby School, named William Webb Ellis, is reputed to have picked up a football during a game and run with it. This statue, commemorating the great event, stands beside the school.

St Andrew’s church - apparently the only church in the world with two ringable sets of bells, it is also rare as it has both a tower (dating back to the fifteenth century) and a separate steeple, added in Victorian times.

The Oxford and Grand Union canals run around the town – the Oxford Canal runs quite near our house. We’ve spent many pleasant hours dog-walking along the towpaths, watching the beautifully painted narrowboats chugging along.

Even in the depths of winter, they look beautiful - this was taken near the house on a bright, though frosty, morning last December. The weather had been very cold for days and the boats were locked in the ice!

Other interesting facts:

Dennis Gabor, scientist, created the ‘hologram’ in 1947, during his time in Rugby.

Sir Frank Whittle invented the jet engine, working at an experimental facility in Rugby in 1937.

Lewis Carroll (aka Charles L Dodgson), author of 'Alice in Wonderland' was educated at Rugby School, as was Salman Rushdie! (though not at the same time :-p)

Rupert Brooke, poet, was born here in 1887
Lewis Carroll (aka Charles Dodgson) author of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ educated at Rugby School

Q is for .......Quotes

2011-04-20T00:30:00.002+01:00

I spent quite bit of time querying the possibilities of the letter 'Q' in this series. I considered 'quaint', 'quintessential' - even thought about writing about HM the Queen!

In the end I've settled on sharing a few of my favourite quotes, limiting myself to the subjects of reading, writing and literature!

"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." Henry David Thoreau

"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again." Oscar Wilde

"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." Dorothy Parker

"The first step in blogging is not writing them but reading them." Jeff Jarvis

"Never judge a book by its movie." J.W.Eagan

...and finally - my absolute favourite:

"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." Groucho Marx

;-)

P is for.......Pubs

2011-04-19T00:30:00.005+01:00

"Land of Liberty, Peace & Plenty", Chorley Wood, Hertfordshire

Being married to someone who works for CAMRA (the Campaign for Real Ale) one quickly learns that frequent visits to public houses may become a necessity! (all in the interests of research, you understand!)

"The Harp", Covent Garden, London. CAMRA National Pub of the Year, 2010

British pubs are so varied that the CAMRA 'Pub of the Year' awards often produce quite an eclectic short-listing! Quaint, thatched-roofed 'country' pubs jostle with inner city hostelries and Victorian 'watering holes'! However, the 'ambience' is only one criteria on which the contesting pubs are marked - after all, it is the ale in question that is supremely important. Quality and variety of product has to be of the highest standard, along with with the manner of service and a welcoming attitude.

"Half Moon", Belchamp St Paul, Essex

Along with visits to pubs my OH travels to many of the regional CAMRA Beer Exhibtions (you could say he gets paid to go to beer festivals!) - and though it's an onerous task I sometimes have to accompany him. It is, indeed, a hard life! ;-p

Aside from encouraging pubs great and small aound the UK, CAMRA is priviledged to run what has been termed the 'biggest bar in the world' when it holds its annual Great British Beer Festival at Earls Court, London, with over 700 ales from the UK and some from abroad!

Our latest beer festival trip was yesterday - our favourite 'local', The Merchants Inn, is running a themed event called 'On The Farm'. Not only have they decorated the whole of the pub floor with real grass (yup, turf freshly laid yesterday morning! see pic)

but they painted the exterior like a Freisian cow!

And the beer names have an 'agicultural' tone - including 'Reservoir Hogs', 'Ploughmans Bitter' and 'Pig in a Bottle'. Totally mad - but fun!

O is for 'On Ice' (flash fiction)

2011-04-18T00:30:00.000+01:00

After a very busy weekend I'm faced with what to provide for the letter 'O' - so forgive me if I delve into some stuff I had stashed away!

I wrote this short piece of fiction (366 words) just over a year ago for a weekly fiction challenge. The requirement was to use, in any random order, the words SCULPTURE, CULTURE, CULT & COHESIVE and create a story.

The term 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' came to mind - but this time, a little role reversal, perhaps? Hope you enjoy this (purely!) fictional account!

ON ICE

‘Ice Sculpture for Beginners.’ That’s what the sign said on the notice board. It had seemed a bit 'off the wall' but I thought – why not?

When Marilyn had said I ought to do something with my spare time, I expect she had something rather worthy in mind. “Join an art class,” she had suggested. What she really meant was “Get a bit of culture, you ignorant bum!”

Ever since she’d signed up for a literary course at the local college she’d changed. Now she was more interested in meeting up with her new social circle of friends at her book club. They seemed to congregate in coffee shops and wax lyrical about the latest book, picking it to pieces and psycho-analysing the author’s writing style, digging deep to find issues that probably weren’t there in the first place.

If you ask me, it’s almost like a cult – the cult of ‘let’s pick the book to pieces and forget about whether we enjoyed it or not’.

Me? Oh, I like to read, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I like to be entertained – I don’t need to be constantly looking for subtext, I just want to escape into someone else’s fantasy.

So, she reads; I chip away at blocks of ice.

It was meant to make us more cohesive; give us something more to talk about. When you’ve been married as long as we have you’ve just about run out of something new to say to each other.

Except – she didn’t want to hear about controlling ice-drips or fractures. On the other hand, she expected me to listen to her incessant babble about how she’d scored points over one of the other literary snobs.

Well, she's missed her last couple of club meetings, but I don’t think they’ll notice. Some new Queen Bee will assume her place, I'm sure.

So, now I have her undivided attention. Now she’s ready to understand; to listen to what I have to say. Let’s get this baby rollin’. She’s been in the deep freeze long enough.

A little remodelling, Marilyn? Last week we did something new in ice-sculpting – did I ever tell you about the hazards of chainsaw kickback?

N is for .....Norman Rockwell

2011-04-16T00:30:00.003+01:00

I have always loved the paintings of Norman Rockwell - there's such a wealth of detail and more than meets the eye!

Take, for instance, 'Girl with a Black Eye' - painted in 1953.

I'd like to know how she got that black eye in the first place? She looks mighty pleased with herself - but after a spell in the principal's office I think she'll change her tune!

This next one has so much going on I could look at it for hours.

It's called "April Fool: Girl with Shopkeeper", painted in 1948. It has a whimsical air about it; just look at the 'doll' she's holding! There's an 'Alice Through the Looking-glass' quality - almost dreamlike, as everyday objects have something not quite 'normal' about them.

"Freedom of Speech", from 1943, has such finely painted characters, they almost seem to 'speak' from the page. I wonder what question the man was asking?

My absolute favourite is another 'single-frame' story - "The Runaway", 1958.

I wonder how far the would-be 'adventurer' managed to get? How long did the Police officer and diner proprietor spend convincing him it'd be better to go back home?

Rockwell's paintings capture a time gone by, a nostalgic portfolio of 'small town' America and simple values that, in today's world, seem to have been replaced with others a good deal less wholesome!

M is for ....Music

2011-04-15T00:30:00.006+01:00

Music plays quite a large part in my family's life, we all play at least one instrument or another. We currently have a piano, several guitars (including basses), violins, an acordian, an auto-harp and several recorders. Until recently, when our son was in the process of relocating some of his instruments, we also had a drum kit, several more guitars, amplifiers, a PA system and sound desk......

So, now we have arrived at the letter 'M' in the April A-Z challenge, of course I'm going to opt for MUSIC!

But rather than 'blow my own trumpet' ( ;-p ) - here's just a few 'interesting' clips for you to peruse! Enjoy!

L is for ..... Libraries

2011-04-14T00:30:00.000+01:00

(Longroom, Library, Trinity College, Dublin)

Up until a couple of months ago, I used to work in a town library.

Unlike this picture, from Trinity College, Dublin, it was quite modern design, all curved walls and glass. It had the distinction of being the first library of the new millenium opened in England, in March 2000, and was the busiest in the county with around two thousand visitors per day.

The public library of yesteryear has changed beyond recognition, at least here in the UK, anyway! Now they are one-stop-shops for all manner of things! My former work place had thirty public-use computers; housed the local Tax Office; offered Adult Career guidance and supplied CDs, audio-novels, DVDs……….and books!

Libraries, however, are under threat in the UK. Budget cuts are forcing some councils to close them, due to lack of use. There may be a number of reasons for this including the fact that books are relatively cheap to buy, especially via online services or that people have more leisure pursuits and ‘reading’ has to compete with a variety of other interests.

In the last three months before I left, we also had to cope with the introduction of self-service issue and return machines! Some customers were not impressed – and voted with their feet! I wished I had £1 for every time someone said “Oh, I suppose that’ll be you out of a job!” Thanks – that really made my day! 

Libraries, I hope, will still be around for some time to come – but they may not look or function as they once did. In the meantime, we need to keep them in use, now – or the free public library service may be taken away from us forever!

So if you are a member of a library please visit regularly and if you’re not, then why not join? You’ll find information on everything from ‘Aardvarks’ to ‘Zymurgy’ – maybe even in the fiction section!

(after all, when the oil runs out and our electronic-based society has to be rationed, you’ll be glad of a good book!)

K is for .....Knitting

2011-04-13T00:30:00.005+01:00

I learned to knit as a child, having excellent role models in my Mother, Aunt and Grandmother. In those days it was not so much about ‘fashion’ as ‘frugality’!

Over the years I've tried knitting most things - I knitted baby clothes as and when they were required for work colleagues and friends and when my own babies arrived they had their fair share of ‘picture’ jumpers!

Also a 'Thomas the Tank Engine' for my son - he had a TT plastic shape-sorter that he would try to take to bed, so I measured it up and recreated it in wool - much more snuggly.

Recently, when my Great nephew was born, (named Thomas, of course!) I decided to create TT#2 - much to my son's horror! (he's 24, for goodness sake - you'd think I'd given his original away!)

As a joke, I knitted a pair of 'ruby slippers' for my 'Wizard of Oz'-mad daughter, in sparkly red 'eyelash' yarn, complete with anti-slip soles especially for the laminate flooring in her flat!

A couple of years ago I decided to have a go at sock knitting.

I read on a lot of knitting forums that once you knit socks that’s all you seem to ever knit. Rubbish, I thought. Now, with a drawer full of knitted foot-apparel, I can see why!! (no seams to sew and just the cast-on and cast-off ends to darn in!)

I frequently have several projects on the ‘go’ - currently: baby clothes for a Chinese orphanage, a jacket for myself, a pair of socks (something easy to take to ‘knitting club’!), and my son wants a hat with earflaps!!

Knitting is a great way of freeing my mind to think through plots – if I’m not knitting, then I’m usually writing, often crime/thriller fiction. This earned me the nickname ‘Knitting Assassin' (thankyou David Barber!) and by way of a tie-in, here’s a knitting-themed short story 'Stitch and Bitch' - hope you enjoy it!

Now, where did I put those needles.......? ;-p

J is for........ (Peter) James

2011-04-12T00:30:00.003+01:00

As I've already said, I'm partial to 'Police procedural' novels and one of my favourite exponents of this genre is Peter James.

His series featuring Detective Superintendant Roy Grace have held me in thrall - but thankfully I still have one or two to read before I catch up with Mr James' current output!

The 'Grace' books are set in and around Brighton - which makes reading them very interesting as it's a place I'm familiar with, so there's the added mental stimulus of being able to accurately 'picture' the settings of the various scenes.

I love the way Peter James draws out the story line, seeing the crime from several viewpoints - victim, perpetrator and investigator.

An added charm is that all the books in the series carry the word 'Dead' in the title.

Check them out
here - it's 'dead' easy!

I is for 'Impasse' (flash fiction)

2011-04-11T00:30:00.009+01:00

I decided I would create some new unseen fiction for this A-Z series, so grab a coffee and take 'five', here you go - hope you enjoy it!

IMPASSE

Kramer climbed the stairs. The treads were old but the plush carpeting muffled any creaking. He leaned back against the wall and craned his head upwards, staring into the gloom. A thin shaft of light cut across the ceiling on the landing, tracing a line diagonally from the closed door. From behind that same door came a noise that Kramer recognised. Indeed, it was a noise he had come to loathe; it echoed around him, invading his dreams and his waking thoughts alike.

“Now I’ll have you,” he thought, a smile puckering deep inside his cheek, his jaw clenched tight in determination. “It ends tonight.”

He stepped higher, his head adjusting to the new angle as he kept his eyes on the line of light that pointed towards his target.

He progressed up the stairs, reaching the open landing and inched his way along the wall. He knew the layout. The floor plan was ingrained in his memory. Three paces brought him level with a bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, but the dimness assured him it was unoccupied. Kramer knew that. The woman was away, and Medway was the sole occupant of the house.

He passed the bathroom and moved on, silent footsteps giving no hint of his presence.

Now he stood at the doorway, a thin strip of light that escaped along its opened edge giving a brief description of the shapes and colours that lay beyond.

Again, that staccato noise interrupted the silence.

He laid his hand gently on the door, counting the beats of his heart, waiting until he sensed the moment was right, and closed his other hand firmly around the gun. On the third beat he pushed the door smartly open, raising the gun swiftly, locating the back of the man’s head.

Inside, the bright light made his eyes smart slightly, but he quickly adjusted his vision to compensate. He focused on Medway’s collar, his gun tracing a bead two or three inches higher, his hand tightening its grip, caressing the trigger.

“You’d better come in, Kramer.” Medway’s voice was clear and concise, but his head remained turned away from the doorway, as if he was preoccupied with matters more pressing than the gun that was aimed at his own head.

Kramer was slightly bemused, but his experience had taught him that giving over too much brainpower to deal with the unexpected often resulted in making unwise decisions. Snap judgements and gut feelings moved the action along – hesitance inevitably brought too many variables to consider and with them, too many chances for failure.

He stepped into the room, continuing to train his gun on the back of Medway’s scalp.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said Medway, the staccato tapping from his fingers pausing slightly in hesitation before briefly continuing. The last sharp rap on the keys hinted at the finality of a sentence or a paragraph and he turned his leather desk chair round to give his attention to the intruder.

Kramer squinted. He’d been planning this for a while and shared the details with no one. Just how Medway could have had an inkling about this latest development was anyone’s guess, but now he thought about it Kramer realised it wasn’t the first time Medway had surprised him.

“Put the gun down, there’s a good chap.” Medway relaxed back into his chair, idly twisting a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles between his fingers as he concentrated on the would-be assassin. He noticed the drab grey raincoat the man wore, the soft brown leather gloves encasing powerful hands. He knew exactly what those hands had been required to do over the last few years. Even the hat sat at its usual rakish and slightly off-centre style.

Kramer focussed on Medway’s portly figure slumped in the chair, noting the yellow stained hands that bore witness to the many years of devotion to nicotine. Even now, a tall column of grey-blue smoke drifted upwards from the cigarette wedged between his chubby, sausage-like fingers. Kramer wondered, again, how such stubby digits could have the dexterity to pound out chapter after chapter at such speed. Yet now, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“I know you won’t be able to fire, so you might as well put the gun away,” said Medway matter-of-factly. “I’ve known since the minute you decided to call here tonight. Like I’ve known all along that this time would come.”

Kramer lifted the gun slightly and tried to squeeze the trigger. To his surprise, nothing happened.

Medway gave the smallest of chuckles. “We’ve had a grand old time haven’t we, but now we’ve reached the end, you and I,” he said, lifting the bottle of Bushmills and pouring himself a congratulatory drink. “I’d offer you one, but…..”

“Oh yes,” replied Kramer. A self satisfied smile replaced the unforeseen inability to just pull the trigger and have Medway’s brains spattered across the keys of his beloved antique Remington Deluxe. “We’ve reached the end alright; I’m not going to carry on doing as you want, acting the way you dictate. I’ve been taking this crap for the last thirty years but it ends tonight; a parting of the ways, you might say. It’s the final chapter for you”

Medway lifted his glass in salute. “Well said – mind if I use that?” he smiled, turning in his chair. “I was just looking for the right words to round things off.” Truth be told, Kramer had hung around far too long. There were new ideas Medway wanted to explore but he’d reached an impasse with Kramer; the guy bored him rigid.

With that thought, Kramer found himself rooted to the spot as Medway resumed his position over the keyboard and the final clacking of the keys sealed his fate.

But Kramer had learned well. Just when the reader thought they’d got to the end of the story there was always that last, subtle, unexpected twist from Kelvin Medway -the master of suspense.

As Medway typed the closing sentence, the final full stop resonated in echo with the discharge from the gun. For a second he slumped slightly forward, his face slowly turning towards the smoking barrel. He watched in slow-motion surprise as Kramer’s face changed, taking on an elated look as, for once, he experienced independent thought. His finger released its pressure on the trigger and Medway saw his form slowly diffuse into thin air, exiting with an ethereal echoing laugh.

In the final seconds before his heart gave up trying to cope with the loss of blood from the wound inflicted by his own his creation, Medway realised neither of them could have survived. His eyes tracked sideward to the note he’d scribbled down earlier and he smiled. It was the title for the final book in his ‘Kramer: PI’ series. “Impasse”

A Crime Writer's Treasury!

2011-04-09T08:46:00.001+01:00

I'm interrupting the A-Z for April with this 'extra' post to my daily offering. ('H is for ... Hilton' is already 'up' for viewing so if you arrived here to read that, just scroll down to the previous post. Normal sevice, ie.'I is for...?' will resume on Monday 11th April!)

Anyway, someone sent me this clip and I had to share it with the other crimewriters amongst you who follow this blog! Pure magic ;-)

- but the challenge is: can you name ALL the films?

H is for ......Hilton

2011-04-09T00:30:00.002+01:00

I first came across Matt Hilton when I was on a forum discussing Lee Child's protagonist, Jack Reacher. Someone made a throwaway comment about another Brit writer with a similar main character.

So it was, that I picked up a copy of Matt's book "Dead Mens Dust". What I'd half expected to be a pastiche of Reacher was swiftly knocked into touch by Matt's deft construction of former soldier Joe Hunter, a man who "dislikes injustice, hates bullies and will stand up to defend others in need of help". Now five books into the series, Hunter still packs plenty of surprises, but there are elements of backstory that weave through each new instalment.

Unlike Reacher, Hunter seems more natural. He's no saint, but he appreciates his creature comforts, when he's allowed to have them! He's not averse to doing the normal things that most of us do - like having bank accounts and mobile phones. This contrasts with Reacher's determination to live 'off grid' which is almost a form of OCD!

Go here to catch up with the latest news of Matt's forthcoming titles

.....and for everything you need to know about Joe Hunter (bar reading the books, of course) try here.

G is for .....Genealogy

2011-04-08T00:30:00.009+01:00

In 2001 we got a new PC with internet facilities and I vowed, as a New Year resolution, that I would stop talking about tracing my family history and actually get on with it!
I started with asking my siblings to dredge up any old documents and photos and having ascertained a few facts about my Grandfather's place and date of birth I began tracing clues through Genealogy websites. Within 24 hours I’d managed to track back 250 years!!!

Genealogy is not an exact science, though - the historical documents such as Census Returns, Parish Records and Birth, Marriage & Death Certificates are accurate only in-so-much that they record what the scribe 'heard' and what the informant 'said'! In some cases those informants may have imparted the facts to the best of their knowledge - others may have had a reason to be 'economical' with the truth! (as in the case of my own father.....but that's another story!)

This is the oldest photograph we have uncovered so far, my 2XGreat Grandparents, William and Mary Routledge, with some of their children.

To research my Family Tree I've had to combine two skills - the ability to do 'mental' jigsaw puzzles, coupled with a hefty bit of detective work! There are family 'myths' that have been, so far, unproved - and a few which most certainly have!! Sadly, I’ve not uncovered any millionaires but, thankfully, no axe-murderers either!

The branches continue to spread out further into the future - new generations of 'twigs' flourish and grow! So far, we have managed to get back to 1651, with the birth of my 7XGreat Grandfather, John Hounam!

This is a work which, to some extent will never be completed! The roots of the tree are firmly embedded in the past - only the lack of recorded information halts the proceedings. This is just the start and hopefully when I'm long gone others will continue to add to it!

(BTW - the charming man with the jauntily styled hat at the head of this blog post is my Great Grandfather, Joseph Edward Beattie. We have no idea if he owned the 'boneshaker' bicycle or it was just a photographer's 'prop'!)

F is for .....Fiction Challenges

2011-04-07T00:30:00.008+01:00

Since I was a child I have always scribbled away at stories. Like many other would-be writers, I’ve harboured the dream of what it would be like to be a published author, yet at the same time I’ve been wary of actually showing my work to others. I suppose it comes down to the fear of rejection!

Well, thanks to two people in particular, Matt Hilton and David Barber, I have been encouraged to be brave and at least share my work amid the blogosphere!

It was Matt’s idea for me to submit some work for an Ezine he co-hosts, called ‘Thrillers, Killers and Chillers’. Warily, I ‘stepped up to the plate’ and sent him a short story entitled ‘Your Worst Nightmare' – then sat and chewed my fingernails back to the quick; after all, he’s a ‘proper’ published author! I didn’t expect much other than a ‘that’s good, but not exactly what we’re looking for…..’ response, so you can imagine my shock when my story appeared on the T,K&C site along with some very nice comments and advice by the readers! Not just a 'one off' either, as a few more found their way onto T,K&C!

David Barber encouraged me greatly by pushing me in the direction of a weekly fiction challenge, originally called ‘Friday Flash Fiction’ (now renamed “Icarus’ Flight to Perfection”) where a starter sentence was polled or a number of words were designated to be used for contenders to create a story within a deadline. I was quickly hooked! I looked forward to this weekly outlet for creativity!

Still more and more challenges have been discovered as I hop from blog to blog. Some require the use of starter sentences, or themes or a restricted word-count (like Lily Childs' weekly prediction set at 100 words max!) I could fill each and every day just entering different stories…..but I’m always keen to hear about new ones, especially for different genres, so if you come across any please let me know!

Thanks to these challenges I’ve been privileged to meet and read the work of some amazingly talented writers. In return, their comments have encouraged and challenged me to explore the way I write (and hopefully make improvements!)

Sometimes, though, I wonder if all this flash fiction is detrimental to creating longer work – as I find myself wanting to hurry along the action! ;-)

E is for .....Entertainers

2011-04-06T00:30:00.005+01:00

Dancers, musicians, singers - they perfect their art to entertain us - and some of them do it so well!

Just a few off the top of my head:

Gene Kelly- often remembered for the iconic "Singin' In The Rain" dance sequence (from the film of the same name), but here's a clip my daughter showed me a while back - mindboggling!

Arturo Brachetti- surely the quickest of quick-change artists!

Tom Noddy- the 'Bubble-magic' man!

(OK - how many of you are going to raid the kids' toyboxes to have a go at blowing bubbles?) ;-)

....and of course, the magic of the Musical!

Here's Ramin Karimloo as The Phantom in 'Love Never Dies' - the sequel to 'The Phantom of the Opera' - fast becoming my favourite stage musical!

D is for ......Dogs

2011-04-05T00:30:00.005+01:00

OK - first non-literary item for this series!

I love all kinds of dogs, all shapes and sizes, but I’m really fond of mongrels – they are, in essence, such ‘original’ one-offs!

I grew up with a canine companion, a collie crossbreed, and it spoiled me for dogs ever afterwards so after I was married and at home with my first baby we embarked on adopting a dog from the RSPCA and a wonderful Whippet crossbreed called Cindy entered our lives. She was a delightful companion and her long-suffering maternal instincts meant that our two kids grew up without ever hearing her snarl or snap! Even when I caught our son, as a toddler, sitting beside her on a rug trying to chew her tail – she simply closed her eyes and waited for him to stop then when I managed to grab him she simply got up and went to her basket for a sleep!

She left a big hole in our lives when we finally had to let her go, nearly twelve years later. I vowed – never again! It was just too painful to have to say goodbye.

But, about eighteen months later we found ourselves bringing home another stray from the Dogs Trust – this time it was a German Shepherd/Whippet crossbreed and we named him Bruce. It was strange to go back to having a bouncy youngster after the staid and placid old lady that we remembered when we thought of Cindy!

He wasn’t stupid – soon worked out how to open doors and cupboards so food had to be kept under lock and key! He had ‘mad’ half-hours when he used to tear about the house then dash outside and do laps around the garden, with a wild look in his eye as if to say “I don’t know how to stop….!” He was a bit odd-looking, I suppose – German Shepherd colouring and feathery tail, whippet ribcage and long legs and floppy ears and he seemed to ‘bounce’ when he walked along. I suppose the best way to describe him would be the ‘real life’ version of Mickey Mouse’s cartoon dog, Pluto!

But now, we have another doggy-shaped hole in our lives, as we said our final goodbyes to Brucie twelve months ago. The house is strangely quiet. With the kids grown and gone the usual ‘welcome home’ on returning from work had been the clitter-clatter of claws on the hard flooring. The sunny spot on the path(see pic) where he would go to sunbathe (curiously, the exact same spot Cindy had picked out for herself years previously!) will be vacant this summer.

....or maybe, not!

My daughter would love to have a dog but working full time would be an obstacle as far as the local rescue centres are concerned. However, rumour has it that my daughter has come up with a cunning plan whereby we could dog-share! As she lives about ten minutes’ walk from us she proposes that she would rehome a dog and I’d be able to walk it during the day………it is a plan with possibilities!

C is for ......Children's Fiction

2011-04-04T00:30:00.004+01:00

As a child I was an avid reader but there were a few favourites that were read and re-read frequently. As my own children grew I rediscovered the magic as I shared my favourites with them.

Alas, one book I’d not been able to find to re-live with them was Enid Blyton’s ‘The Treasure Hunters'.

However, a recent trip to the delightful ‘town of bookshops’, Hay on Wye, brought me face to face with my past – well, a small part of it, anyway! Rummaging through the shelves in the largest bookshop in the town, my daughter handed me a copy of the aforementioned title and straight away I was transported back to my youth! (And an interesting aside, Enid Blyton wrote this tale under the pseudonym of Mary Pollock – never knew that!)

OK, so it was a paperback binding and my original had been a cloth and board bound gem picked up at a jumble sale, but flicking through the pages I was right back there with Jeffrey, John and Susan Greyling, attempting to decipher an old treasure map and trying to thwart the intentions of the ‘baddie’ Mr Potts, who wanted to con the family out of it’s stately family ‘pile’! It matters not to me that it is very much set in a time when values of loyalty, obedience and honour were so different to children’s fiction today – I think it’s quirky and nostalgic and I love it!

Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and the companion novel of ‘Alice through the Looking Glass’ were beloved bed-time reading. I looked forward to re-acquainting myself with all the various characters - my favourite was the snooty caterpillar! (I loved this so much that a recent fiction challenge inspired this story called “Seeing’s Believing”)

The ‘Katy’ stories by Susan Coolidge fascinated me and I never grew tired of reading what she ‘did’, what she did ‘at school’ and what she did ‘next’. It was interesting to read about home and family life in nineteenth century America – a world away from 1960’s Britain! I’ve not been able to track down the two later books in the series – Clover and In the High Valley – I wonder what they were like?

There were many other books I read, usually junkshop and jumble sale ‘finds’ plus my weekly trawl of the local library shelves, but I inevitably returned to my favourites - perhaps they were my literary equivalent of a ‘Linus’ blanket?

Now, appetite whetted, I’m off to join the Treasure Hunters and see how the Greyling children aim to defy the nasty Mr Potts…..!

B is for.....Billingham

2011-04-02T00:30:00.005+01:00

I like ‘police procedural’ fiction and one of my favourite authors is Mark Billingham.
Although he has written several ‘stand alone’ novels he has a series centred on Detective Inspector Tom Thorne.

A stubborn sort of character, who doesn’t always get it right first time and tends to thumb his nose at his superiors, Thorne is based in the Metropolitan Police Murder squad. Through the series of novels it is clear that the impacts of crime leave their mark not only on the victims but also the investigators – Thorne carries his fair share of scars.

Recently, the first two books in the series – ‘Sleepyhead’ and ‘Scaredy Cat’ have been televised – here’s a clip from the first one:

http://www.markbillingham.com

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/b/mark-billingham/

A is for .......Authors

2011-04-01T00:30:00.003+01:00

For this series of ‘A-Z for April’, I was going to use the various letters of the alphabet to talk about individual authors, but other subjects got in the way! (and I couldn’t find enough authors for each letter anyway!)

So, to start off I thought I’d just list a few of my favourite authors who won’t get a letter all to themselves!

Lee Child –

‘Killing Floor’ introduced me to the enigmatic Jack Reacher, the ex-Military Policeman who tramps around like a cross between a hobo and Robin Hood. There are fifteen books so far in the series, I have them all but am pacing myself as I work through them – Reacher is quite an intense character! With the sixteenth title just announced (‘The Affair’) due out September 2012, I have a few months to catch up!

Adrian Magson

– I started with the fourth in his Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer series, called ‘No Tears for the Lost’ on audio CD. Gavin, a female reporter and Palmer, an ex-policeman, team up well together. Underneath the excitement of the action there’s a tension between them that leaves you wondering ‘will they, won’t they…’ - I recently managed to buy two more in the series so maybe I’ll find out! Mr Magson has also just started a new series about an MI5 officer named Harry Tate, the first book of which is called ‘Red Station’ – my current read (and it’s gripping!!)

Simon Kernick

– his ‘police procedural’ novels came highly recommended by a police sergeant I came across on the Lee Child forum; high praise, indeed! The added bonus is that a number of the stories that I’ve read so far are set in North London boroughs I’m familiar with, having lived there. I think being able to really picture the scenes gives an added dimension and really makes the books come alive! Again, there are a number of characters that reappear in successive stories – they turn up like old friends!

Grant McKenzie

– he’s an emerging author I came across when I used to work in our local library. One of the ‘perks’ of the job was being able to see new stock when it arrived. I picked up ‘Switch’ and read the blurb – and was hooked! That copy didn’t get straight out onto the shelf – it went home with me that night and virtually remained glued to my hand for the next few days. It’s a mystery thriller with more twists and turns than your average corkscrew…..! So, when his second novel, ‘No Cry for Help’ was released last year I pre-ordered it without even knowing the synopsis. Again, it didn’t disappoint – another fast-paced thriller! Just waiting for the third book to emerge – the working title is ‘The Fear in Her Eyes’ and if it’s anything of the calibre of the first two, it looks like it’ll be a white-knuckle ride!

Pam Jenoff

– a welcome break from the ‘high octane’ stuff, her novels are no less intriguing. ‘The Kommandant’s Girl’ is set in Europe during WW2 and deals with a Jewish woman who is smuggled out of the Warsaw ghetto and then finds her new ‘Gentile’ identity places her in the awkward situation of working for a Nazi official. Further books cover the Cold War years and are full of beautifully written suspense and mystery.

Karen Kingsbury

– her ‘911’ series started with ‘One Tuesday Morning’, a story based on the Twin Towers attack in New York and its aftermath. A businessman and a fireman are caught up in the disaster but only one survives. Because of appalling injuries there is some confusion over his identity and when he returns home it is to a wife he doesn’t recognise, but is it just amnesia…? Further books in the series describe how the tragedy that touched the lives of a group of people continues to shape their future as they come to terms with their loss. Although it is an emotive setting, the three books of the series that I’ve so far read all deal with the subject matter in a very respectful and considerate way.

There are so many more – but they will have to wait for another time. I hope the above have piqued your interest enough to go and investigate them for yourselves. Happy reading!

All wrapped up and ready to go!

2011-03-31T18:21:00.000+01:00

Well, in just a few short hours the 'April A-Z Challenge' will be up and running.

I've just been sorting out the first few pieces for the daily blogging requirements - an eclectic mix of things literary and otherwise! I'm looking forward to visiting other blogs and seeing what some of you have concocted for this challenge - good luck everyone!