Category: Creative writing

A Sequel to Short Listing

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , , , , 28 Comments

This is the logo for Flash Fiction South West and I am proud and excited to be part of the very first published anthology, Kissing Frankenstein and Other Stories. Not only is it a first for FFSW, it’s a first for me! My very first time  in print.

I know that lots of you are published writers, do you remember the feeling you had when you first held a book with your name inside? I’ve been bouncing for twenty four hours now!

May 16th is National flash Fiction Day, perhaps you will be inspired to write something on that day. If not, check out the talent that the West Country has to offer,

http://flashfictionsw.co.uk/ and it’s even better to run your hands over the sleek cover and inhale the fresh, gorgeousness of new book.

 

Shortlisted, me?

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short storyTagged , , , , 45 Comments

Yes me! I submitted to South West Flash Fiction just for fun really and never dreamt that I would be short listed. National Flash Fiction day is on May 16th and Rachel http://rachelcarter.me an inspiring writer herself thought it would be a good idea to have a page to showcase the work of Westcountry writers.

So there I am and on the front page as well.

http://flashfictionsw.co.uk/ Do have a read, my story is Mystery Lady on The Train, written after I spotted an ad in the local newspaper.

100 word Challenge for Grown Ups: Week 35

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, WritingTagged , , , , 21 Comments

This weeks 100 word challenge over at Julia’s http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/03/19/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-35/

is ‘The Red box’ and this is my take on it!

Red Box Versus Tree

It wasn’t exactly a bang, more a low clunk like an Ikea drawer closing.

‘You’re going to die’ he mocked the older sister he was so jealous of, ‘Just wait ‘til . . .’

‘Shut up, I’ll just have to pay’.

‘Yeah, for about seven years, that’s how long he waited for it’.

She couldn’t settle, Luke kept smirking at her. She checked the window every five minutes, eventually the Jack Russell yapped as it chased through the gate. She went outside.

‘Dad . . .’ she sobbed.

‘I saw, don’t cry angel it’s just a red box on wheels’.

 

A Post for International Women’s Day

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 26 Comments

This is a story I wrote a while back and I’ve chose to post it today because things aren’t always what they seem. Myfanwy at http://chittlechattle.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/international-womens-day-part-2/ will be hosting for International Women’s Day.

Rashini’s Girl Child

The woman, Rashini, plied her goods on the Niger from Mopti, Kassoum and north to Timbuktu taking her daughter Aliyah along. Malaria had taken the child’s father when she was small and Rashini had defiantly refused to re-marry, upsetting her family who had found her a husband wanting a second wife. Rashini had seen how her mother had suffered as a junior wife and knew that she and Aliyah would become slaves. As Aliyah grew near the age of the ritual they rarely stayed in the village for long, she was fearful for her daughter. Not for her the thorns and cutting of the vile village witch, her mother was saving to have a doctor perform it cleanly.

The ferry pulled up to the river bank and the throngs of people gathered their baggage. Some had been sitting squashed in the same spot for days and their movements released aromas of unwashed body mixed with spices, saltfish and ripening fruit from their packages. They tightened their scarves around nose and mouth until they were able to breathe cleaner air on land. She thanked Allah for their safe arrival and for her daughter’s health and strength. Opening an indigo dyed bag, she found small sticks, and passed one to her daughter

‘Your teeth Aliyah, and soon we will find some breakfast’.

They had bought some flat bread made on the boat, but then disgusted threw it overboard as it was infested with worm. Arriving at Timbuktu was always joyful; there they could choose from many foods that could not be found anywhere else. Water carriers strutted around with their goatskins on their heads, containing pure, sweet water from mountain springs.

‘Ma can we have millet patties please?’

‘We have to sell the cotton first’. . .

‘And some egg?’

Rashini smiled at her child’s dancing eyes; she could deny her nothing and would protect her from all. The air in Timbuktu was hazy and relentlessly hot, harmattan had left a sandy veneer over the city. Mother and daughter carefully stepped over bits of unidentifiable animal carcass, clattering metal pans and calabashes in the river side market.

‘Timbuktu is kind to us Ali, but I never want to live in this noisy chaos, with many people whose words I can’t understand’

‘Can we go and stay in the village forever one day ma?’

Afraid to commit herself Rashini smiled but turned towards the weaver’s lanes,

‘Hurry child we need to sell before the boat comes in with big sacks of cotton’. If only we could go home and settle in peace, I’m so afraid for you.

There was a clackety clack crescendo of noise as they got closer to the Weaving Men. Here they were able to sell their best quality raw cotton, grown near their village. They lingered over tempting cotton and fine wool wrappers fresh from the looms, but hunger ruled and they headed back to the street with a full purse.

Heading towards the Tuareg women when a call through the crowd reached them,

‘Rashi hello, let’s have tea’

They exchanged greetings with Fauziya from home and headed to a shady tea stall to share news.

‘There is circumcision of six girls next month and your mother has asked for reports of you because it is Ali’s time, you must come home she says’

‘Oh you must not say you have seen us please, we will go to the hospital soon’

‘Uh . . . okay but she will be angry when she finds out’

‘No, she can say nothing, if it is done it is done, I will not allow it her way for my daughter’

They spoke of trade before parting and well breakfasted returned to the business of selling. The Tuareg women were always hungry for the thick nourishing Shea butter to protect their skin from the dryness of the Sahel which left their faces like paper so they paid well for Rashini’s supply from the far east of the Niger.

That was a lucky meeting, I was heading home for a few days rest once we had sold our stock and refilled with things to sell there. Not now though, we must go to the women’s hospital in Koutiala instead. I will never forget my marriage night. My husband broke my body. I was cut and sewn up at Ali’s age and there was no way in for him. He pushed and pushed until his penis was soft and painful then he tried for hours with his hand and a wooden tool. He couldn’t get up in the morning and face the other men without evidence of my virginity and so he found a way . . . exhausted and already in pain I must have lost consciousness when he cut . . . I woke many hours later.  Aliyah was made that night.

There was a call to prayer from the minaret nearby and Rashini thought God is great, where was he then?  She counted her savings and decided there was enough and some spare for emergencies, it was time.

‘Aliyah, we have to travel a long way now, we go to Koutiala to take care of you and it will take many days. First we must buy food for the journey’.

‘A big journey on a bus is exciting and I will be brave when we arrive ma, you will be proud of me’, she smiled but there she had a look of fear that only her mother would notice.

Mammy wagons and trotro’s were parked nose to nose in the central bus area. All were treacherously overloaded with crates and livestock headed all ways out of Timbuktu. Rashini and Aliyah wandered in search of a south bound one that looked likely to reach the destination without overturning on the sharp bends. It looked as if there wasn‘t space for a mouse on the wagons but always more squeezed on so they were as high as they were long,  travelling villages where anything could be bought at a price. Eventually they chose one that had been freshly painted, bright mottos of ‘Allah u’Akbar’ alongside ‘Jesus Saves’ and a picture of Haile Selasie suggested both a well maintained truck and a broad minded driver. It would take them to Bounadougou and then they would get a tro-tro the rest of the way.

The journey was mercifully uneventful, they passed several wagons not so blessed and were able to help themselves to produce abandoned by the roadside. Lilting music accompanied them on the journey. The trancelike rhythm of Toumani Diabate’s kora, occasionally a haunting flute quelled arguments and the engine purred like a choir of cats. The tro-tro was quick and dropped them near to the hospital. Rashini gave her daughter to the care of the doctor and waited.

She watched her while she slept on a pallet in a bare but clean room and held her in her arms as she regained consciousness. She shed no tears from her antelope eyes but allowed herself to be comforted in her pain. Later they took refuge in a cousin’s home for a few days and then began the slow journey home to the village. Rejoicing in the triumphant act, Rashini took her daughter to the enclosure and greeted her family.

‘Rashini, you have brought the girl for her circumcision at last, we have been . . .’

‘No auntie it is done, it is done in the hospital’ she said with pride.

A couple more takes on IWD

http://aipetcher.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day/

http://roughseasinthemed.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day-and-my-gibraltar-angle/

The Write Stuff, A Slight Refrain

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Humour, WritingTagged , , , , 22 Comments

For two days now I have been learning to write. No, not the creative type that I have studied with the Open University, but handwriting, just like this, that you may or may not be able to read. If you have paid attention, you will have seen a post a month ago, where I exposed myself as one of the worst scribes on the planet.

Last week there was a development, a patient at work commented ‘Oh you have such cute little handwriting’. It made my colleague laugh rather too much  and gave me a nice warm glow all day. It actually wasn’t cute or nearly readable like this, it was more my old style. You see,I think I might just have turned over a new leaf!

I started to think about why it is so messy. I know that part of the problem is that I am really always in a hurry but it has to be more than that. And then I remembered, a few people over the years have said that I don’t hold my pen correctly, so I looked at how others did it. It seemed to be something to do with the angle, so instead of my usual grasp,

I tried like this,

and guess what? It’s instantly better, whoop, whoop I’m so excited, I can nearly do it. At this point my daughter will be thinking special mummy and laughing her head off. But why did it go wrong in the first place? I really was neat as a child and feel a bit cheated when I could have had really stylish writing all my life. My next challenge will be to keep  trying to improve until it does look beautiful. I may have to work on making it a little bigger as well, I can remember my old boss saying my writing was too small as well as illegible and I would defensively tell him that he should be pleased that a pen would last longer because I didn’t use as much ink.

So, click on the two photos, can you all see some improvement? 🙂

100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups Week #31

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, WritingTagged , , , , 42 Comments

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/02/20/100-word-for-grown-ups-week31/

Click to visit the original post

This weeks prompt is The Flip Side and you would have to be a certain age to get what I’m talking about but here it is!

Down the lane from the fields

The last few bits were thrown into the removal van and us kids went back to our rooms to check for left behinds. ‘It’s no good complaining you’ve forgotten something’, mum’s voice sounded sad, she’d been here forever and thought she would never leave. I saw her through my window, a basket on her arm, picking the bright red fruit for the last time. So much for Strawberry Fields Forever. Dad took her hand and led her to the car. I was last to climb in, with the coins I’d found. ‘Ready?’ said dad ‘Penny Lane here we come.’

Flight to Krakow (part one)

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 23 Comments

A lofty bay with a shaft of sunlight peeping through the leaded windows but outside the garden had rampaged to obscure the view. The chairs in the bay were rigid and upright, but she chose to sit where she could see more than just decay. Eight years. That’s how long it had taken to keep the promise she made as her grandmother lay dying.

‘Go to Krasne, take my diaries . . . in the bureau, and all of the photos’

‘Where is Cratchnuh Gran? I’ve never heard of it’

‘In Podkar, find your aunties and uncles, you have seven.’

‘What?’

‘I am Polish Anna and you must go, there is a home for you there.’

She turned away and closed her eyes.

Anna married, and lived her life in a small Devon town but she often wondered who might be out there and why her grandmother had left them behind. She found herself alone after an amicable divorce and decided now was the time. Researching on the internet she tried every possible spelling of the place names and got nowhere. The language was difficult with its alien sounds but she tried to learn a few words and when a Polish grocery shop opened, she became a regular customer, just so that she could listen. Of course the people there were bemused by this local woman, picking up tins to read the labels, but they would smile benignly and practise their English on her. Anna told them that her grandmother had been Polish and from Cratchnuh or Podca ‘Have you ever heard of it?’ They were delighted but frowned and shook their heads. ‘Podcarpahtzee’, another shopper said smiling, I have heard of this place’, it is spelt like this, and wrote it down for Anna, Podkarpackie. Anna booked a flight to Krakow that evening.

Travelling alone held no fear for her. Her grandmother had brought her up after her parents died and money had never been a problem, she had used part of her inheritance to backpack around Australia. Arriving at Krakow her first thought was to get to Krasne as quickly as she could, but negotiating the language was a lot harder than trying to buy bread in the Polish shop at home. She would see what she thought must be a post office, and it would turn out to be a Vets surgery instead. She decided to settle in for a couple of weeks and enjoy Krakow, getting on and off of bus’s, finding out how they worked and each day going a little further. In her hotel, her patience paid off when she became a familiar face and people began to talk to her.

Of course they would help her get to Krasne, ‘Why hadn’t she said before?’ The manager helped her find the bus, buy tickets and wrote detailed instructions for her journey. The hundred miles of countryside were stunning but her nervousness spoilt her ride. She had no idea what she would find at her destination, a small town with barely any internet information where no-one knew her. Would they remember her grandmother? By all accounts she had left there at least fifty years ago and never returned. Her hotel there was not the cosmopolitan experience she’s had in Krakow and she thanked Bazyli silently for his notes in Polish.

The taxi driver waited until the studded wooden door opened to her and then gestured that he would return in two hours. She smiled down at the woman who looked puzzled at first, but then spoke, ‘Bo . . . Bozena?’

Inspired by this photo by Barbara Fritze (Beelitz Heilstaetten), courtesy of Frizz text http://flickrcomments.wordpress.com/2012/02/04/looking-back-christopher-hall/
more of Barbara Fritze’s work can be seen here

http://flickrcomments.wordpress.com/2011/04/08/barbara-fritze/#comment-12369

 

January Small Stones # 6

Posted on Posted in A River of Stones, Creative writing, January Small StonesTagged , , , , 4 Comments

I sit across from her hands for the first time. From the orange stain between the two top joints of her middle finger, of course there would be. From the nearly okay nails. Not the expected short neat clip, but some long, interspersed with others, angle-broken with two weeks’ worth of un-straightened growth. From the wrist, with an unevenly shaped centimetre of darkness, erupting on the crumpled paper thin skin.

A Hobbit Gets Wet

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Working worldTagged , , , , , 6 Comments

It started today when he arrived with wet hair and his shirt stuck to his body. He had nothing to change into, not a dry stitch on him. The white fabric was transparent when pulled away from his skin. Tiny waterfalls of rain ran down to the triangle at his throat, which was red from cold burn. He shuddered as fingers stroked hair from forehead to nape. Shoes kicked away and then socks peeled to lie in a heap ‘to dry’ he murmured, still breathy from his run. ‘You need a hot drink’ I said. ‘No no, but I’d like to take my clothes off, have a hot bath.’ I daydream for a moment; this reminds me of a film, something DH Lawrencey, starring some long gone actor.

You thought this was going to be rude didn’t you? Come on fess up!

Sorry, this is what really happened!

There’s a cute hobbit at the desk next to me and I’m his Auntiegee, the crazy Polish woman is his sis and for the last year we have been trying to educate him. Nothing too demanding, no nuclear physics, God particle or even how to tell a debit from a credit. No, just the simple things like eating three meals a day, not just one at nine pm, and how to not get lost on a five minute walk to Heavitree. And then there’s wearing a coat when it’s cold or a monsoon like this morning. He did have a coat, but he left it behind when he left his last flat, in a hurry because the bailiffs said he should. I’m glad he left it, quite frankly if I put it my dog’s bed they would wonder why I was punishing them. And anyway that was five months ago, before autumn and winter. Crazy PW, a couple other colleagues and I have tried to direct him towards a shop – even the charity shop across the car park to buy a coat but he pleads poverty. We know he’s not poor; his Christmas gift was money that’s been swept away by his current obsession, he’s dabbling in the stock market. When asked what shares he is buying he says ‘can’t tell you, it’s classified, if I did I’d have to kill you.’ He always tells me because he knows I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.

He has said before that there’s’ probably a waxed jacket somewhere at home – but that it would probably smell of dog. Like his car. That causes me to have an asthma attack whenever I’m within three feet of it.

We were actually really concerned for him today because he’s had a cold virus thing for ten days, so sitting around in wet clothes has got to be bad news. Our nagging was reinforced through the morning by relentless rain and so at lunch he went shopping. He doesn’t like shopping alone, and the day before he had a Christmas party, I went with him and successfully chose his clothes in ten minutes. I was too busy to go this time and anyway we have to let them go sometimes don’t we?

He went, and returned hugely proud, with a rain jacket-fleecy thing, at twenty quid a huge investment in his own well being. Now if we can just get him to invest in some shoes so that he doesn’t take them off, glue them and press them under the table leg behind me we could be making progress!

That’s my hobbit.