And... that's all folks.
The flood is over for another issue, and you can flop about on the sand, gasping for breath, and waiting for the waters to return.
For now, thank you for reading.
Until next time...
Sunday, 17 June 2018
Saturday, 16 June 2018
'Ten Reasons to Write' by Dorothy Rice
It’s more socially acceptable than talking or muttering to yourself.
If you write with a pen, pencil or quill, or alternate hands on the computer keys, it leaves one hand free for the candy bowl.
Your family and friends will label you the, “quiet, serious” type. When called upon to join in on a conversation you’d rather not be part of, you can look up and say, “Oh excuse me, did you say something?” eyelids fluttering as if you’d just emerged from a fugue state.
You will be amazed how quickly this catches on. In no time at all, others will be making excuses for you. You won’t even need to open your mouth. “Oh never mind her,” your sister, friend or colleague will say, “she’s a writer.”
After awhile, you may not need to talk at all. Said sister, friend or colleague will do your parts for you, while you happily scribble away, perhaps offering the occasional distracted nod, so you aren’t taken for anti-social or rude.
Snacks are not an interruption to the creative process, as they might be for other professionals. Actually doing it well—writing that is—is super hard and requires constant fuel. Easily manipulated items such as cookies and chocolates are perhaps preferable. But the occasional cheesecake or ice cream sundae may be called for. Maneuvering a fork or spoon while avoiding spills onto the page or (heaven forbid) the computer keys, can be tricky, but worth the extra effort.
Staring into space or into the swirl of steamed milk on your cappuccino is entirely acceptable behavior for the writer. It’s called “thinking,” which is something all writers must do. Trust me.
Some say walking is also effective and that it brings the added benefit of counter-acting the tendency for the writer’s muscles to atrophy. But there are, as yet, no empirical studies to back up these claims. My own research, on the other hand, amply demonstrates the critical role of unabashed snacking and staring dreamily into the world beyond your eyeballs, or behind them, if you’re so inclined. You might even experience an epiphany!
I’ve no idea how many reasons that is. I’m a writer, after all. I can’t be bothered with mathematics. But here’s one more, an important one.
Writing is the fountain of youth, seriously. Better than face cream or intermittent fasting, better than cross-word puzzles or learning a new language. You may look like a dinosaur on the outside, but inside, man, you are nimble as a grasshopper, and springy too.
Oh dear, the candy bowl is empty. Nothing between the couch cushions or beneath my thighs. Not even a stray Skittle in my bra. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy. I set the tools of my trade down, plump the pillows, and slump to a prone position.
Two hours later, I pick up where I left off.
Oh yeah, restorative naps, another excellent reason to write.
If you write with a pen, pencil or quill, or alternate hands on the computer keys, it leaves one hand free for the candy bowl.
Your family and friends will label you the, “quiet, serious” type. When called upon to join in on a conversation you’d rather not be part of, you can look up and say, “Oh excuse me, did you say something?” eyelids fluttering as if you’d just emerged from a fugue state.
You will be amazed how quickly this catches on. In no time at all, others will be making excuses for you. You won’t even need to open your mouth. “Oh never mind her,” your sister, friend or colleague will say, “she’s a writer.”
After awhile, you may not need to talk at all. Said sister, friend or colleague will do your parts for you, while you happily scribble away, perhaps offering the occasional distracted nod, so you aren’t taken for anti-social or rude.
Snacks are not an interruption to the creative process, as they might be for other professionals. Actually doing it well—writing that is—is super hard and requires constant fuel. Easily manipulated items such as cookies and chocolates are perhaps preferable. But the occasional cheesecake or ice cream sundae may be called for. Maneuvering a fork or spoon while avoiding spills onto the page or (heaven forbid) the computer keys, can be tricky, but worth the extra effort.
Staring into space or into the swirl of steamed milk on your cappuccino is entirely acceptable behavior for the writer. It’s called “thinking,” which is something all writers must do. Trust me.
Some say walking is also effective and that it brings the added benefit of counter-acting the tendency for the writer’s muscles to atrophy. But there are, as yet, no empirical studies to back up these claims. My own research, on the other hand, amply demonstrates the critical role of unabashed snacking and staring dreamily into the world beyond your eyeballs, or behind them, if you’re so inclined. You might even experience an epiphany!
I’ve no idea how many reasons that is. I’m a writer, after all. I can’t be bothered with mathematics. But here’s one more, an important one.
Writing is the fountain of youth, seriously. Better than face cream or intermittent fasting, better than cross-word puzzles or learning a new language. You may look like a dinosaur on the outside, but inside, man, you are nimble as a grasshopper, and springy too.
Oh dear, the candy bowl is empty. Nothing between the couch cushions or beneath my thighs. Not even a stray Skittle in my bra. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy. I set the tools of my trade down, plump the pillows, and slump to a prone position.
Two hours later, I pick up where I left off.
Oh yeah, restorative naps, another excellent reason to write.
'Solo for Two' by Barbara Renel
She drags her suitcase away from the bottom of the escalator and sits on it. She watches the metal stairs unfolding, disappearing, backs of heads going up to the Main Line station, faces coming down – an elaborate choreography of avoidance as people, pushchairs, bags, shoes, criss-cross in front of her, left to right, right to left, Victoria, District and Circle Lines, blue, green, yellow routes, exiting, entering.
The clasps of her suitcase unsnap. Inside, a black leather case, battered, curved. She takes out the violin, tightens the bow and waits for his introduction. She imagines the opening broken chords of his piano, chords that will gently ascend, descend, support her melody. And she plays their song, their story.
There’s an Egyptian limestone statue in the British Museum, two seated figures, a man and a woman, their clothing androgynous, height distinguishing one from the other. She’s holding one of his hands with both of hers. They are looking straight ahead, certain of their relationship.
Her melody is sustained, buoyant, floating on his piano. She ascends slowly adding a note, taking another step, moving further away, but always returning to the beginning, home. There is no drama in this music, the song serene. Their story is simple, timeless.
The provenance of the statue was unknown, the figures labelled anonymous. She has a photograph of her teenage-self standing next to it. When she re-visited the museum the figures were smaller than she remembered. Recently they have been identified as Horemheb and Amenia. It’s an important statue now, preserved in a protective glass case, unreachable.
She takes a breath and gently slows towards the final notes. She listens as the last sound echoes then disappears. She loosens her bow, returns her violin to its case and closes her suitcase, ready to move on.
First published: Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 10:1(April 2017)
The clasps of her suitcase unsnap. Inside, a black leather case, battered, curved. She takes out the violin, tightens the bow and waits for his introduction. She imagines the opening broken chords of his piano, chords that will gently ascend, descend, support her melody. And she plays their song, their story.
There’s an Egyptian limestone statue in the British Museum, two seated figures, a man and a woman, their clothing androgynous, height distinguishing one from the other. She’s holding one of his hands with both of hers. They are looking straight ahead, certain of their relationship.
Her melody is sustained, buoyant, floating on his piano. She ascends slowly adding a note, taking another step, moving further away, but always returning to the beginning, home. There is no drama in this music, the song serene. Their story is simple, timeless.
The provenance of the statue was unknown, the figures labelled anonymous. She has a photograph of her teenage-self standing next to it. When she re-visited the museum the figures were smaller than she remembered. Recently they have been identified as Horemheb and Amenia. It’s an important statue now, preserved in a protective glass case, unreachable.
She takes a breath and gently slows towards the final notes. She listens as the last sound echoes then disappears. She loosens her bow, returns her violin to its case and closes her suitcase, ready to move on.
First published: Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 10:1(April 2017)
'An Unexpected Fall of Snow' by John Holland
She stands in the darkness of the back garden wearing her red water-proof coat and green wellingtons. Underneath only her nightgown. It is 4 am and the garden has a covering of snow. Something she was not expecting when she left her husband sleeping. She has two carefully folded white sheets under her arm. A green plastic petrol can in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. She feels the cold wind like a sharp slap on her face; a bitterness cutting into her legs, through her nightgown. Making her body tense. Her hands rigid.
She thinks she has never seen snow this white, this luminous. Never seen the garden so beautiful. Or desolate. Like a secret world. For what the night does not hide, the snow does, flattening, folding itself around contours. Trees stand like silent witnesses. Huge white hands pleading to the dark sky. She looks at her footprints that make plain the short journey she has taken from the house. Her tracks defiling the covering of snow. If it does not snow again, or thaw, her tracks will be obvious in the morning. She does not know if she cares.
She takes a few more steps, hears the snow creek, almost groan, under her feet. Finds the garden incinerator next to the compost heap. Wipes the snow from its lid with her bare hand. She places the sheets on to the lid of the container. The scissors allow her to cut across the outer seams of the sheets. She tears. It takes all her strength but there’s a satisfying ripping noise that echoes into the silence.
She places the torn pieces in the dry bottom of the incinerator, carefully splashes them with petrol, lights a match and drops it in. Nothing. The match has extinguished. She tries again. The reaction is immediate. An orange flame surges from the sheets to the top of the incinerator. She steps back. The snow under the incinerator legs melts. She continues cutting and tearing, dropping more strips of sheet in the fiery container. A circle of green is now spreading outwards from the incinerator. Like a growing oasis in a cold white desert.
The heat is so intense she has to throw the strips from some feet away. Flames lap the top of the incinerator, so that her face begins to feel sore from the heat. Her back still cold. Her boots squelching in the green under her feet.
She hears the distant sound of a train. Impatient drumming fingers. Fainter, fainter. Like a memory, a longing. Walks a few steps towards it, raises her head to listen until it is silenced. She sees a band of silver grey at the edge of the sky. And wipes her tears with the back of her hand, as the strength within her grows.
'The Unexpected Trade' by Nicole J. Simms
While looking in all directions, Travis darted down the street with his baseball bat gripped in his hand. He knew he shouldn’t be out here, but he was tired of living like this; he needed a reminder of how life was before it all ended – a time where you could walk down the street without the fear of someone jumping out at you and trying to devour your flesh.
Travis held his side as he reached the row of shops before him. He checked behind him for any oncoming attackers, and on seeing that he remained alone, he then stepped towards the shop in the middle and stopped. His attention focused on the gold coloured words ‘R Cuts’ that shimmered against the black base of the shop sign. ‘Phew, I’ve made it,’ he said.
He pushed open the shop door. The door creaked – the only sound to alert the occupants of his presence. He stepped inside and observed his surroundings. A solitary hairdressing sink with an accompanying chair was to his left, a single chair in front of a wall mirror was to his right, and a plasterboard barrier divided the room horizontally. ‘Hello, anyone here?’ he called, gripping his baseball bat.
Footsteps stomped towards the partition, and a gap slowly appeared in the barrier revealing a scarlet-haired woman. ‘What do you want?’ said the woman, stepping through the new gap in the partition and slapping a hammer against her hand.
‘I heard you still run your hair salon?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I need a haircut. Can you do it for me, love?’
The scarlet-haired woman threw her hands to her hips. ‘Don’t ‘love’ me, mate, my name’s Ruby.’
‘Sorry, bab, I mean, Ruby. So, the haircut?’ Travis ruffled his ponytail. ‘I’m tired of the Rapunzel look.’
‘What have you got to trade?’
Travis glanced at Ruby’s breasts, which were snugly hugged by her vest top. He smiled, pulled out his empty jeans pockets and shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing but my body.’ He winked at Ruby. ‘You can have that if you want?’
Ruby rubbed her chin and glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Hmm,’ she said, returning her focus to Travis. ‘I think we have a deal.’
Travis dropped his baseball bat on the floor, ripped off his T-shirt, unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them down.
‘Bob!’ shouted Ruby.
Travis paused.
Minutes later, heavy footsteps pounded towards them, and then a bald-headed giant-looking man clutching a bloodstained crowbar walked through the gap in the partition. He stood beside Ruby. ‘What’s up?’ he said, scanning Travis from head to toe before his attention landed on Travis’s once-white boxers.
Travis yanked up his jeans; he wasn’t expecting an audience.
Ruby faced Bob. ‘Here’s another one for you.’
'A Lexical Guide To The Bulldog Breed' by James Burr
I sit in the pub, the flames of the fire reflected in the curves of my glass, glaring at the young man, spiky hair thick with gel, year-old Aston Villa top hanging off his thin spotty frame. I can hear his voice from my seat, at the other end of the pub.
"Caned", he says.
"Drunk."
"Inebriated." He smiles.
"Intoxicated".
"Pissed."
"Cabbaged"
"Pie-eyed."
"Bombed".
"Plastered."
I glare across the bar at him, his loud voice making my head ache.
"Loaded."
"Merry."
"Pickled."
"Sloshed."
"Soaked."
"Well-oiled, slaughtered, lashed." The man pauses to down his pint, his friends finding him one of the greatest wits they had ever met.
"Fuddled."
"Canned"
"Mullahed."
"Half seas over."
"Tanked up."
"Stewed".
“Stoned.”
He pauses to think. His face wrinkles as he does so.
"Under the influence."
"Blitzed"
"Monged". "Arseholed." "Tiddly."
"Tight."
"Hammered". He raises an eyebrow. He's obviously remembered a beauty. "Bacchic", he says proudly.
But then he notices me watching him from across the bar, and shouts at me, "What's your problem, then?"
I stare at him in silence, as the man shrugs his shoulders then says to his friends, "Ah, he's only jealous 'cos I'm a drinking man."
He is, of course, wrong.
But I would have been impressed - had I not known that Eskimos have twenty-nine words for snow.
'Waiting' by Gaynor Jones
Even with a pastel cloud of candy floss obscuring her face, the woman next to me is familiar. Flecks of sugar get caught in the scattered moles on her chin as she chews.
When the music starts, her body tenses.
‘It looks fast, but they’ll be OK. Is it your granddaughter you’re waiting for?’
‘My daughter.’
I can’t see anyone older than six on the carousel.
‘I watched her get on it. But I never saw her get off.’
My skin prickles as I realise who she is.
‘I - I’m sorry. I saw her in the paper.’
We all did. Years ago. She was the story of the decade - until she wasn’t.
‘She climbed up on that horse, right there. But I never saw her get off.’
The girl with the chestnut hair and moon-blue eyes beamed out from posters and milk cartons for years. Ubiquitous. Then she faded into background news, for everyone but this woman.
‘Today’s her birthday’.
‘Do you come back every year?’
She turns to me, chewing the now barren wooden stick between yellowed teeth.
‘I come back every day.’
She tosses the stick to the floor.
‘We’d argued, you know.’
I knew. I’d read every word of the interviews as a teen. Our nation became armchair detectives. Until we remembered our chores, our lives.
‘I only put her on to give me five minutes’ peace. You know how children are.’
I think of tantrums, untidy bedrooms and refused meals. As the carousel slows to a stop, I watch the exit gate like a hawk.
My daughter bounds over.
‘Mom! Can I ride again?’
I embrace her, tight.
‘Of course! I’ll go with you.’
I turn to the woman, inadequate.
‘It was nice to meet you.’
I squash my daughter onto my stomach as though I can envelop her back into the safety of my womb. I marvel at the miracle of her hair, feel her warm tummy rising under my hands, inhale her laughter. We pass the woman on the bench over and over, until the last time, when the carousel starts to slow, when I look over and she is gone.
When the music starts, her body tenses.
‘It looks fast, but they’ll be OK. Is it your granddaughter you’re waiting for?’
‘My daughter.’
I can’t see anyone older than six on the carousel.
‘I watched her get on it. But I never saw her get off.’
My skin prickles as I realise who she is.
‘I - I’m sorry. I saw her in the paper.’
We all did. Years ago. She was the story of the decade - until she wasn’t.
‘She climbed up on that horse, right there. But I never saw her get off.’
The girl with the chestnut hair and moon-blue eyes beamed out from posters and milk cartons for years. Ubiquitous. Then she faded into background news, for everyone but this woman.
‘Today’s her birthday’.
‘Do you come back every year?’
She turns to me, chewing the now barren wooden stick between yellowed teeth.
‘I come back every day.’
She tosses the stick to the floor.
‘We’d argued, you know.’
I knew. I’d read every word of the interviews as a teen. Our nation became armchair detectives. Until we remembered our chores, our lives.
‘I only put her on to give me five minutes’ peace. You know how children are.’
I think of tantrums, untidy bedrooms and refused meals. As the carousel slows to a stop, I watch the exit gate like a hawk.
My daughter bounds over.
‘Mom! Can I ride again?’
I embrace her, tight.
‘Of course! I’ll go with you.’
I turn to the woman, inadequate.
‘It was nice to meet you.’
I squash my daughter onto my stomach as though I can envelop her back into the safety of my womb. I marvel at the miracle of her hair, feel her warm tummy rising under my hands, inhale her laughter. We pass the woman on the bench over and over, until the last time, when the carousel starts to slow, when I look over and she is gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)