Mandy's Musings

Righteous Exposure - released by Crooked Cat Publishing http://bit.ly/uLyAzK 3 weeks today!

2012-01-31T12:48:00.000-08:00

On the 21st of February my novel Righteous Exposure will be released as an e-book.It will be on sale at Amazon and Smashwords. You can read an excerpt from Chapter 1 below. Hope you enjoy it!

Prologue

Somewhere in the depths of sleep, her mind begs:
No! Please… not this again…
The plea is ignored as the dream rolls in real-time.
Her pounding heartbeat provides the soundtrack to a special screening – old fears claiming the starring role.
Twenty-three years fall away – Alita is seven years old again.
The San Antonio heat is overpowering as the July sun terrorizes the shade into thin strips around a courtyard boundary. The smell of olives hangs heavy in the air, and an ornate fountain bubbles over marble lions.
Submerged in the fountain pool, her hand is very brown against the white of the marble. She wriggles her fingers, imagining her hand is a sea creature, and then lifts it out and up to the sun.
Opening and closing her fingers against the glare, Alita marvels at the beauty of the water droplets running like mercury along her skin.
A muffled scream turns her blood to ice.
Her eyes dart towards a partially shuttered window across the courtyard.
Did the scream come from there? Mama said on no account must she go near the big house.
She runs to the window anyway, adrenaline fuelling her steps.

The house dominates her tiny frame. It is white, cool and as huge as a snow-covered mountainside. Alita needs to see inside the shuttered room but the window is just too high.
“No, please, sir, not again!”
She is sure that the voice is her mother’s, though it has the same muffled quality as the scream.
Is Mama being hurt?
A twisted olive tree near the window provides a prickly ladder and, balanced precariously, Alita peers through the shutters.
When her eyes adjust to the dim light, she sees a large bedroom, and on the bed is a man sitting astride her mama, he is tearing at the buttons on her blouse and holding his other hand over her mouth. She is crying and trying to push him off, but he is too strong. Alita feels angry and hot. She cannot see his face as he has his back to her, but she can hear him.
“Shut up, you little whore, just remember I pay you, and a good pay check it is too.”
He has undone the blouse now and is pulling down her mama’s bra straps. He slaps her face when she bites his hand.
“You just lie still if you know what’s good for you, bitch!” says the man, raising his fist.
“Please, sir, why now, after all this time?” her mama is asking, lying still as he has ordered.
“Because I can, Liliana, because I can!” the man shouts, pulling up her skirt.
Alita is scared and confused but doesn’t care if she gets into trouble for being near the house. She pulls open the shutter and screams out.
“Leave my Mama alone!”

Twenty-three years into the future, Alita the woman echoes these words, crying out in her sleep.

The man leaps from the bed and pulls Alita the child into the room; he pinches her chin hard between his finger and thumb and turns her face upwards. It hurts so much but she won’t let him see that it does. She flails at him with small fists.

Alita the woman mirrors the action, punching air as the dawn light seeps through the curtains.
“What have we here then?” the man chuckles with cold humor.
She can’t see him clearly. He has pulled the shutter inwards, hiding himself behind it. Through the slats in the shutter, his face is alternately lined with shade and sunlight. The little she can see tells her that he is white. He smells of tobacco and liquor.
“Let her go, please! I know I shouldn’t have brought her to work but I had nobody to watch her today,” her mama cries, pulling her blouse together and hurrying over.
“My Mama usually has her but she’s ill today and...”
“Shut up, Liliana! You know I won’t allow children of workers here,” the man interrupts. “You people have too many little maggots crawling about the place, won’t be long before there’s no white folks left!”
“I’ll take her now, sir, you don’t have to pay me for today,” her mama says, grasping her hand.
The man continues to hold Alita’s chin, turning her face to the sunlight.
“Mind you, Liliana; this one’s a very pretty little maggot…blue eyes, quite unusual. In fact I’d quite like her to come and work for me in a few years, I’m sure she’d be very useful.”
“Let her go, you son of a bitch!” her mama cries slapping his hand away. She picks Alita up and runs down a wide marble staircase out into the glare of the afternoon.
The man runs after them but stops at the top of the steps. Alita can hear him shouting as she buries her tear-stained face in her mama’s neck.
“You’re fired, Liliana…do you hear me!”
“I quit already, do you hear me!” Her mama shouts back. She sets Alita down, and together they run down a long gravel drive away from the big house.

1
Another shift over, Dr. Ramirez snapped off her rubber gloves and shrugged out of her white coat. She needed a shower, food and rest. Sleep deprivation cast shadows underneath her dark lashes and weariness oozed from every pore.
Ramirez rubbed her eyes, yawned and loosed her raven hair from a tortoiseshell hairclip. From her locker she took black jeans, a red blouse and trainers. Pulling on the jeans she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Damn, I look more like fifty than thirty this evening! She wondered how the older staff coped with the workload if she felt like this. Never mind, another half hour and she’d be tucked up in bed.

The changing room door flew open as she tied up her trainers. Senior nurse Caldwell, forty, flustered, and pink stepped in.
“Oh, thank goodness I caught you, Dr. Ramirez, sorry, but we need you for a while longer. Dr. Gregory’s been called away to an emergency and we need you to assess an assault victim just come in.”
“What?” Ramirez said, feeling her stomach thump to basement level. “Is there no one else?”
Caldwell stuck out her chin. “I wouldn’t ask you if there was. The victim’s a fifteen year old girl; she’s in pretty bad shape.”

The girl looked more like ten than fifteen as she lay lifeless motionless on the gurney. She was Hispanic, short, slight of build, her dark hair hanging in a limp braid. Her breath rasped on the intake and rattled on the out. A tear, slipping from the corner of her eye, traced a bloody path through a livid wound swelling on the left side of her face.
The other eye was prizefighter blue and sealed shut, her top lip matched her face.
Dr. Ramirez took a deep breath and assessed her quickly. The girl moaned as the doctor's fingers probed, though she took the utmost care to be gentle. As well as obvious bruising and a sprained wrist she suspected a fractured rib.
“What’s the story?” Ramirez asked the officer who’d accompanied the paramedics that brought her in.
“Not sure, Doc. We got an anonymous call to say that someone just saw a girl collapse on the sidewalk. No ID, she understands English, but she won’t tell us her name.”

Ramirez leaned close to the girl. “What’s your name, honey?”
Another tear escaped but she said nothing.
Ramirez tried again ¿Cómo te llamas cielo?

The girl swallowed and looked into her eyes. “Marissa,” she whispered. Even this small action ripped open the split in her top lip, blood trickled into her mouth.
“Marissa? What a pretty name. Just lie still now.”

An hour later, Dr. Ramirez sank into her comfy office chair by the window. She was utterly exhausted now. She thought about the girl she’d just attended, and closed her eyes against the sadness welling behind them. Her eyes had seen too many Hispanic children and teenagers needing her attention over the years. All had carried with them silent tales of poverty, hopelessness and despair. This most recent one, Marissa, had been raped as well as beaten.
She walked over to the water cooler and filled a plastic cup. Through her tenth-floor window the purple shades of evening were creeping over the city. Houston could be really beautiful at this time of day. The retiring Texan sun painted subtle hues of orange, yellow and red along the tips and edges of stone and aluminum.
Sand coloured skyscrapers, reflected in the stark glass of the Wells Fargo building, stretched their fun house images to the sky.
Ramirez sipped her water and even though she was almost asleep, marvelled at the scene. This was the Houston skyline. Monoliths to the modern, sprinkled with the dust of the past swept in from the plains.
Something about the soft light playing over the white walls of a smaller building to her left suddenly triggered unwelcome images. The intoxicating smell of olives filled her senses, and images of a woman long ago in a big house, frightened, ashamed and dominated, blocked out the skyline.
The memories punched hard in the gut, and Ramirez stepped back under the impact. Images of a young child, small, terrified and powerless, her face cruelly pinched between the finger and thumb of a strong hand, forced their way into her mind. Then insidiously, the vile source of these terrifying images passed briefly in front of Ramirez’ eyes too – he went by the name of Robson Cutter.
She blinked rapidly, trying to force the unwelcome images from her head, and turned to the door; she needed to get out, she needed to go home.
As she took a step forward, the floor seemed to rise under her feet. Her face drained of color and she swayed from side to side. Quickly, she grabbed the desk to stop herself from falling.
Ramirez leaned on the desk, closed her eyes and tried to take slow calming breaths. Her whole body shook as waves of nausea crashed against her stomach walls. She reasoned the cause was the eighteen-hour stint, and the emotion involved with the poor girl she’d attended. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
In a cold sweat, her stomach churning painfully, she grabbed her bag and ran out into the corridor. Dashing for the locker room, she made it to the cubicle where she dropped to her knees and vomited. As she did, the face of Robson Cutter grinned in her head.
Shaking from head to toe, she flushed the toilet and then ran water into a basin. The water felt good as she splashed her face but it couldn’t wash away the memory of that name.
When she thought of Cutter she saw hatred and misery. In her mind her mother’s face merged with Marissa’s – just another poor vulnerable young woman.
She patted her face dry with a paper towel and regarded her haunted expression in the mirror. Dr. Alita Ramirez gritted her teeth and vowed that one day; somehow, she’d avenge her mother and wipe that grin permanently off Cutter’s face.

My first novel is to be published!

2011-12-29T08:01:00.001-08:00

I have fantastic news! I am to have my novel Righteous Exposure published in e-book form by Crooked Cat Publishing in late February 2012!

They are an innovative new company and have exciting ideas for bringing new authors and great stories to the public. I signed my contract on Boxing day, and you can imagine that it made my Christmas!

I will be bringing you more exciting news about the release date as soon as I know. So exciting isn't it?

Click here to find out more about Crooked Cat Publishing, my novel and submission guidelines.

http://crookedcatpublishing.com/

The Little Big Man

2011-10-31T12:12:00.000-07:00

The man swaggered.

He never walked or ambled like other folk, swaggering was his thing. On top of the swagger, a puffed up chest proudly thrusted. The physical stance and presence of the man silently challenged all who crossed his path.

He puffed and preened, insinuated his importance into very air that they breathed, until each person he chanced to meet felt in awe of him. These lesser folk would whisper about his mightiness in hushed tones. Some fled from his long shadow before they could be exposed as naked, unworthy, feeble...envious.

One day the man swaggered past a small child playing in a cool clear stream. The child laughed and splashed the man's expensive shiny shoes.

The man puffed out his chest, folded his brow into a furrow and wagged a fat finger at the child. "Don't you know who I am?," he said.

"Umm, people call you 'The Big Man', why don't you come and play in the stream with me, it's fun!" giggled the child.

"I am too important to play in streams, and you have wet my shoes," the man bellowed.

The child laughed again and the man felt his heart lift and fill with the simple joy of a long forgotten childhood. The child's laughter insinuated itself into the very air that the man breathed. A tickle of laughter bubbled in the pit of the puffed up chest, but the man clapped his hand over his mouth to suppress it. It would never do to be seen laughing in public. He had an image to uphold.

The man's wet feet marched him home, and once inside, he barricaded the door with every available stick of furniture. Red faced and sweating, he caught a glimpse of a little man across the hallway. What was this man doing in his house?

Swaggering forward, he was annoyed to see the little man copy his movement. How dare the impudent little wretch!

The man rolled up his sleeves, puffed out his chest and prepared to strike the little man hard across the face. The little man mirrored his every action and all of a sudden it became horribly clear that the little man was in fact his own reflection in the looking glass.

But how could this be? Everyone knew he was the big man, a man of swagger and puff, a man of stature. The man raised a trembling hand to his brow and feared his life of importance was over. "It was that child, that damned child!" he wailed aloud.

Clawing aside the barricade, he opened the door and raced back to the stream. The child had gone...but the laughter remained. It whispered in his ears, tugged at his heart strings and encouraged the tickle of laughter in his puffed up chest to swell, grow and erupt from his mouth like a shower of diamonds. The man kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and splashed into the stream.

People from miles around heard his laughter on the breeze and in the very air they breathed. Carried on wings of joy, they ran to join him in the cool clear stream.

And from that day forward, they no longer whispered in hushed tones, or ran from the man's shadow. Instead, they lived with him as equals and they all grew strong and tall.

The little man was was at last truly big. He and all the folks often laughed and splashed in the stream...and the child led them.

Trapped

2011-09-18T11:27:00.001-07:00

I tell myself it’s just a clock like any other.
A machine made to mark time.
A helpful reminder of minutes and hours,
slipping past, to rise and shine –
Carpe diem.

Whispering through the night, smiling in the dark
rubbing its hands at the thought of 6:am.
Thought becomes reality, and summoning all powers of evil
it unleashes a BANSHEE WAIL !

A jackbooted marching assault on silence and senses.
Viciously shaking me awake...GET UP!
GET UP! NOW! WORK! WORK! NOW! WORK!
GET UP! GET UP! WORK!

WORK crushes my spirit long before it has
wings to fly.
At time’s inception it’s dead in
the water.

Trapped like a cog in the wheel
I roll from slumber searching desperately
for my ship to come in - unfurled freedom upon its mast.
When it does, I’ll sail away.

Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree

2011-08-06T01:46:00.000-07:00

If time were compressed into a sphere the size of a golf ball and whacked with a 5-iron, would it actually fly? Would it rocket across the universe, ricochet off stars; get tangled in String Theory and collapse into a black hole-in-one?
Recently, her mind mimicked a circus. Thoughts tumbled like acrobats, cart-wheeling, clambering over obstacles of reason and logic, and in finale, presented human pyramids of surrealism.

Time...there was never enough of it.

Dew covered wellingtons. She stopped in dappled sunshine, looked up. Fluttering leaves, interlacing branches, and beyond the highest canopies - blue sky. She knelt, moisture seeping through jeans. Pressing a palm to moss, she held and released. Her handprint remained, fleetingly.

Death left nothing behind except memories. There had to be more to human existence. Were we just handprints in moss?
A carpet of bluebells nodded affirmation.

A deep breath. Inhaling wisps of toadstool, hints of fern, she stood and followed the path to the meadow. The farmhouse, brown against multitudes of green, seemed alien now, yet it was home.

Nearing the orchard, a memory of a long ago spring soothed her troubled mind. In this spot, he’d enveloped her in strong arms and softly sang,
“Don’t sit under the apple tree...”

She plucked a sprig of blossom, leaned against the tree. Soon blossom would fall and apples ripen. Apples would rot, pips would grow into trees, and once again lovers would sit under them. Perhaps some would even sing softly on hushed spring nights.

She smiled. Her lips caressed the blossom.

Spring was a time for hope - the bluebells were wrong.

An End to the Bull

2011-07-01T00:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight, under the light of a million stars, she would put an end to the lies. Once her reason for being, he was now a weight around her neck, draining, wounding, dragging her earthbound.

Too often she allowed the bull to sweeten the pill of bitter excuses. He must have thousands packed away in his cold little heart, and when required, there they’d be, ready. Excuses R Us – just add water - unpack and peddle.
Working late, car broke down, conference away, the wrong kind of air on the tracks. Bull, bull, BULL!

Only she could put an end to it, but what final barb?

His eyes twinkle like the stars, but she must take him by the horns - cast him to dust.

“I want an end to the bull; you tear my heart out, taunt me, trample my love beneath your hooves of infidelity.”

He snorts, paws the earth. She sees more excuses, bitter wounds ready to tumble from his lips. She smiles, lifts her eyes to his, thrusts her sword between his horns, a twist for good measure.“I don't love you anymore.”

He stumbles, falls, dies in the dust.

Meet Ronan

2011-06-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't posted for sooooo long but I have been working on a new novel and spending lots of time with the young man in the photo.

As you can see, Ronan is the most beautiful child in the history of the universe. He is of course my grandson, born on the 23rd of February this year.

When my daughter was pregnant with him, a friend on Twitter, Sandra,(@sixtiesdancer) told me that I would fall instantly love with him/her, when he/she was born. I thought hmm, of course I was really looking forward to meeting the new baby, but instant love? She was right. I was lucky enough to be there at the birth and saw him minutes later. He is so lovely, adorable, intelligent, curious, sweet...in short, perfect.

Every time I see him he's changed and at just over four months, he's already losing the baby look. I am so lucky to live close by and see him grow and develop into a little boy, with his own personality and the rest of his life ahead of him. I'm sure we will all share many happy days with Ronan.

This brings me to a project I am involved with. I have written a story which is part of an anthology, Hipp-O-Dee-Doo-Dah to raise money for Children's Hospices UK. (Click on the link on the top left of the blog for more information.)

There are lots of children in the UK who are not as fortunate as my grandson. These children and their families need our help and support in order for them to get the facilities they need.

Children's Hospices UK, relies on charity for its survival, which I personally think is scandalous.Cuts are being made in public services and poorly children have to rely on charity, while Tomahawk missiles fired in Libya and elsewhere cost £500,000 each. Storm Shadows - another type of missile cost £800,000 each. Isn't there something wrong here? Money for death can always be found, while money for life is apparently non-existent.

Once again, like so many other causes, it's left down to people like you and me to make a difference. The anthology has loads of great uplifting stories which would entertain children of junior school age. If you feel you could help in a small way by buying this anthology I, and the children would be very grateful.

Cross Your Heart

2011-03-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

“So what happened to fish face then?” Gill asked Bella’s bottom as it wigged to and fro.
Bella stopped wiggling and moved from all fours to a kneeling position. She turned to look at Gill, and frowned. “Fish- face?” she said absently scratching her forearm with the back of the damp scrubbing brush.
“Yes the one that you emailed about. The one that you would die for, murder for, walk over hot coals for, poke your eyes out for. You called him fish- face as a term of endearment for some unknown reason.”
“Not fish-face silly, fishcake!” Bella laughed, standing up and slopping dirty water into the sink.
“Oh right, there is sooo much difference between the two, how could I have been so stupid?” Gill smiled and sipped her tea.
Bella smiled too, washed her hands and then joined her friend at the kitchen table. She looked at Gill and suddenly pinched her cheek playfully. “I have missed you so much. You mustn’t leave it so long next time.”
“Oy, watch the make -up,” Gill said rubbing her cheek. “And anyway, you’re the one who upped sticks and moved fifty miles away. Remember, you just had to be near Bobby, or you would just wither and die like a poor little flower on an arid plain?”
Bella rolled her eyes and nodded. “Yes, but as you know there turned out to be a Mrs. Bobby, so he bobbied off to be with her and the three little bobs.”

Gill laughed at her friend’s dry humour and poured more tea. She wondered if the flippancy was just a facade though. Bella looked like she’d lost weight. Her normally glossy chestnut mane looked lifeless, and the old faded pink T-shirt and grubby stained jeans had definitely seen better days.
The small sea-front flat Bella called home was spotless however. Gill remembered that her best friend had always cleaned furiously when she was down. Bella hadn’t even stopped scrubbing to greet her properly when she’d arrived. Still, she figured she’d carry on with the light hearted banter if that’s what Bella wanted.
“And then before you had time to pack your bags and come home, fish-face came on the scene. So where is he?” she said sitting back and folding her arms.
“I told you it was fishcake!” Bella said laughing a little too loudly. “He once made me a cake in the shape of a fish. As you know I’m a Piscean, so on my birthday he made me this wonderful...wonderful fishcake.” Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and then spilling over, they ran unchecked down her face.
Gill jumped up and quickly went to hug her. She could feel tremors shaking her friend’s whole body as she gave free reign to her sorrows. Her sobs grew louder, and Bella suddenly pulled away covering her face with her hands.
“What’s wrong honey? What’s he done to you?”
“What they all do, use me and ...d..dump...me!” she wailed through her sobs.
“So he just walked out on you? Look at me sweetie,” Gill said trying to prize Bella’s hands from her face.

Suddenly Bella stopped crying, took her hands from her face and said calmly. “He tried to walk away, but he found that difficult after I hacked his legs off.”
Gill looked at the vacant stare in Bella’s dark eyes and felt a chill start at her toes and race up the length of her body. “That’s a funny thing to say Be...”
“I drugged him and then hacked him to pieces,” Bella interrupted in her flat monotone voice. “He’s, well what’s left of him, is in the bath.”

Gill stood up knocking her chair over. A flashback of the dirty water slopping into the sink rocked her senses...dirty water which had looked oddly rusty in appearance. The pink faded T shirt, had it once been white? The stained jeans...Jesus, what had Bella done?! She backed away towards the sink and gingerly glanced in. What she saw made the bile rise in her throat.

Gill nodded to the sink. “God Bella, please tell me that’s just liver or something you were cleaning up when I got here.”
Bella looked puzzled. “What? No I just told you I hacked him up. That in the sink is what’s left of his heart. He crossed it and hoped to die when he said he’d love me forever. I crossed it a few times when I shredded it,” She looked at Gill and grinned manically.
“For God’s sake Bella stop it! You’re scaring me now. Look you’re obviously having some kind of breakdown. I shouldn’t have just showed up here unannounced, it threw you.”
Gill edged her way towards the bathroom, not daring to take her eyes from Bella’s. “Now I’m going to look in the bathroom and you’ll see, it’s all in your mind.”

The handle felt cold, and Gill’s hand shook as she pushed it down and opened wide the bathroom door. Bella’s breath felt hot on the back of her neck as her terrified eyes tried to take in the carnage in the bathtub.
“It’s all in my mind eh?” Bella whispered, and then, “I’m so sorry Gill.”

Bella hummed as she ran scalding water into the bucket, and added a liberal squirt of bleach. She wiped the carving knife clean and then returned to the bathroom. Bella had a few loose ends to tidy up.

A Story worth Telling

2011-01-27T07:15:00.000-08:00

Jenny watched the frantic dance of snowflakes outside her father’s upstairs window. Each one is different, she remembered as a sudden flurry peppered the glass. She sighed as their fragile forms distorted, melted, and slid to obscurity - their unique beauty lost forever.

A chill crept through her like rising damp, and she pulled her father’s chunky Arran cardigan tightly around her. Jenny rubbed her face against the collar, inhaling the familiar comfort of better days. He’d had this cardigan forever.

She felt her energy sapping away, and the old rocking chair creaked in protest as she flopped down in it suddenly. Pushing back, Jenny set the chair in motion and closed her eyes against the darkening sky. Her hands cradled the mound of her belly, and she slowly stroked her unborn child as it turned, stretching the round, distorting the form of her shape.

A voice calling her name woke her. Jenny opened her eyes and found that it was night. Immediately furious with herself she struggled to her feet, she’d not intended to sleep at all.

She hurried to the next bedroom and opened the door.

“Dad, did you call, are you alright?”

“Ha-ha! Now we both know that’s a daft question,” her father said, the effort of laughing causing him to cough into a handkerchief.

Jenny pulled a chair up to the bed and took his hand, a hand that was almost skeletal, a hand that felt paper- light, a hand that full of strength, used to hold hers when she skipped alongside him.

“Well you know what I meant, are you feeling any worse, I thought I heard you call me?” she said anxiously scanning his face. She definitely thought he looked more drawn, and his skin seemed almost translucent in the yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

“Aye I did call you, but I‘m feeling not too bad as it goes,” he leaned forward and squeezed her hand. Even this was too much for him, his breath rattled and rasped in his chest, and he sank back down onto his pillows like a deflated balloon.

“Dad, just lie there and try and get some sleep,” Jenny said blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. Life could be cruel, you’d think at the end there’d be some respite.

Her father shook his head and looked at her, the old flame was suddenly lit in his eyes, and he wagged his finger from side to side.

“Plenty of time for sleep soon. No, I want to tell you something, and if I don’t say it now I may not get the chance.”
“No need to say it dad, I know what...“

“No you don’t know what I’m going to say. You think I want to say I love you and stuff, well there’s no need because you know it,” he wiped his mouth with the handkerchief. “No I wanted to say that I read one of your stories a while ago and it was good, really good. I forgot to mention it with all the tests and hospital trips, but I think you should do something with them.”

Jenny flushed with pride. He had never been one to praise her for anything really, so this meant a lot. She’d never really imagined doing anything with her scribbling. She had written for pleasure almost as long as her dad had owned that cardigan, but had only shown her stories to family and friends.

“Well, I suppose I could send one or two off somewhere and see what happens?”

“There’s no suppose about it. Do it, and do it soon. Too many of us go through life and never leave our mark. I’ve done my best, worked hard and looked after my family, but I won’t be remembered for anything in particular.” He took another painful breath. “My story will remain untitled Jen; don’t let the same thing happen to yours.”

Jenny couldn’t blink fast enough, or swallow hard enough, and the tears escaped, chasing each other over her face like melting snowflakes on the pane. They held hands in silence as no words were necessary.

She thought about her dad, their old life, and the new life growing inside her. Lastly she thought again about how each snowflake was unique and beautiful, and how unbearably sad it was that some melted without ever been seen at all. Jenny edged nearer and placed her father’s hand on her belly.

“I promise you dad, I’ll try my best to leave behind to this little one a story worth telling, and I’ll make damned sure he knows that you handed down the tale.”

Happy belated New Year

2011-01-19T09:19:00.000-08:00

Gosh so sorry 2011, not really acknowledged you on my blog. In fact I haven't been on here all year!

OK, what have I done so far this year? Well I have become grumpy due to getting up in the dark and rain and wind and hail and snow and cyclones (well that's pushing it a bit), and going to work. That's been the negative bit. But on the positive side there's lots.

1) Finished my novel and am currently sending out into the world on its own. It's still tottering on its wobbly little legs but hope it will learn to walk soon. Running? - well you can but dream:) Book deals only happen to others...or do they?

2) Colette Caddle acclaimed novelist, my Twitter friend and now real friend came over to see me a few weeks ago. She is just the same as she is on Twitter - well not quite as she is bigger than her avatar (though not much) and is very warm, funny, and caring...well sometimes. I am really lucky to know her and she cheers me up and slaps me when I need it too. Her hands are quite small so I don't need medical treatment afterwards.

3)I was shortlisted in two comps - one still pending. Yes I know always the bridesmaid never the bride, but you never know - one day I gotta win don't I? (why I suddenly descended into the Bronx circa 1955 speak I don't know.)

4) And last but certainly most exciting, it is only 3 weeks to the day that my first grandchild is due!! Yes can't wait - seems to be taking ages and I am quite an impatient person sometimes! Well yes alright ALL the time. I am going to be at the birth unless my daughter kicks me out for getting on her nerves.Wonder what it will be - I'll stick my neck out and state right here and now that it will be a ...baby! Slight cop out there. OK I reckon it will be a girl.

So anyway WW aside (work and winter) I feel optimistic and positive about 2011 so far. Little rays of sunshine in the shape of all the above are shining through the January gloom and lifting my spirits to the clear blue beyond!

Long may it continue I say :-D

Time’s Up

2010-12-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

“Time and tide wait for snowmen I think,” Angelica said looking into the void.

“Not quite, but almost,” Minuteman murmured. “Look stay still and I’ll see what Hourlenion says.”

Angelica watched him fly to a taller snootier Time lord. Momentarily Hourlenion frowned. She couldn't believe it really. Safe passage to the next life depended on getting time related phrases correct.

Minuteman returned. “Look, one last chance, ‘Time flies when..?’

“You’re in the sun!” Angelica said. She was sucked into the black folds of infinity.

Hourlenion shrugged. Technically true but cuts had to be made and the void was cheaper.

No Pasaran!

2010-12-03T05:50:00.000-08:00

“So no pasaran means they shall not pass?” Jack said leaning forward so his great-granddad could hear him.

“Yes, it was a phrase of defiance against the Fascists. It started in the Spanish war and lots of us used it to boost our morale when we landed in Normandy in 1944,” Harold croaked watching Jack’s pen dance across a notebook. He was pleased that Jack wanted to record his thoughts and deeds. Youngsters today needed to know the lessons of the past.

“Make sure you don’t tire Harold young man, he is ninety you know,” a carer said placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack shrugged her hand away. “Yes I do know that - he is my great-granddad.”
A fake smile slid off her face like melting ice-cream. How dare this kid be so rude, little shit looked a bit dark skinned to her too.

“Ok, only a few more minutes we have to get him fed and washed,” she spat and marched away.

As Jack wrote Harold watched the carer pick up cups and straighten cushions in the day room. She was unremarkable apart from a pock marked face, very short hair and a tattoo which made Harold’s stomach churn in disgust every time he saw it.

Her neck was defiled by a swastika.

The first time he noticed the tattoo it was just sticking up slightly from her collar so he couldn’t be absolutely sure but he’d been ninety nine percent. He’d seen that outline so many times during the war and in his dreams ever since.
When she turned up in a lower neckline he’d seen it in all its foul glory. It throbbed with a life of its own as a vein in her neck delivered putrid blood to her pea brain.

Harold had stared transfixed as the horror of the DD landings trampled blood- shod across his memory. Friends blown apart before his eyes, the stench of shit blood and vomit, inhuman screams of pain curdling his senses.
Harold had at first hoped that she was just very stupid, but last week he’d overhead something that had chilled him to the core. She’d assumed he was sleeping and was on the phone as she sorted his washing.

“Yeah bloody Paki’s deserved it coming on my street thinking they own the fucking place, a few burns will teach ‘em a lesson.” She folded and sorted as if she were talking about the weather.
“Yeah I helped...what did I do?” she lowered her voice, “I’ll tell you...I only poured the petrol didn’t I? Then Gazza lit the thing...went up like a fucking bonfire,” hatred chuckled from her depths. “Serves ‘em right... there ain’t no black in the Union Jack.”

Later after Jack had gone Jez came over and whispered in his ear, “Come on you old bastard, let’s get your filthy arse wiped. Half-cast grandson gone home eh?”

As she bent to release the brake on his wheel chair Harold mustered all his strength.
His walking stick shot out and she fell heavily. Her head smacked down on the marble hearth, and an almost black rivulet of life-blood trickled down her neck blotting out the swastika.

“No Pasaran!” Harold hissed, “No Pasaran!”

Not The Man I Married

2010-11-26T07:47:00.000-08:00

Inspector O’Keefe drove out of his street and into the gridlocked traffic. He looked at his watch. 7:50 He should be at his desk by now...he would have been but for his wife.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and though about her. Emma’s pasty face swam across his consciousness and then bobbed on a gentle swell like a great fat Flounder.
He’d grown to hate that face, to despise every wrinkle, every pore, every...
Red... amber... green ...green...GREEN!!!

A cacophony of car horns blasted her face out of the water triggering O’Keefe into action. He raised a hand in a half-hearted gesture of apology to the car behind and accelerated through the lights.
He rolled his eyes and cursed Emma. She was still causing trouble even though she was at home in the kitchen sitting on her huge fat behind.

She had a degree in sitting on her arse, a Masters in stuffing her face with crap, and a PhD in moaning.

The moaning recently consisted of her saying that he’d become a different man since he’d joined homicide, that he had no time for her, was obsessed with the job, and his favourite – had become psychologically damaged by his daily immersion in murder. Stupid melodramatic cow!

O’Keefe chuckled with cold humour and pulled into his parking space. Well at least when he got home tonight the hole in her face would be silent...but definitely larger than normal.

The twelve bore had seen to that.

Destiny

2010-11-11T10:59:00.000-08:00

Suspended in the heavens by black velvet thread, a night like any other heaved a sigh and shed tears of despair.

It was time.

Wood- smoke escaping the campfire snaked around trees as gentle rain caressed two figures silhouetted against the flames.

“Dance with me again,” she pressed play and moved her body seductively against his.
“No you must go now. The old tales are true ...I can feel the change in me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, how could they be?” she smiled up at him.

His eyes glowed yellow, and his lips peeled back revealing dangerous canines.

She stopped smiling.

Nice Guy

2010-11-05T01:44:00.001-07:00

The condensation formed droplets on the cafe window chased each other south. Teardrops spilled from her eyes mirroring their path.
Cally’s gaze strayed to his photograph then back to the window.
A waitress came over and picked up her tray.
“Are you alright? I couldn’t help noticing you’re upset.”
Cally shook her head.
“Five years together. We were engaged...”
“What happened?”
“He’s married, wife’s expecting.”
She held up the photograph. “Nice guy huh?”
The waitress looked at the photo.
Cally looked at the waitress’s swollen belly.
Their eyes locked as tragic realisation dawned.
The tray clattered to the floor.

Snake Man

2010-10-29T00:53:00.000-07:00

“Quick get up wind, snake man’s coming!”

Ace pushed Josh behind a row of wheelie bins. A finger to the lips silenced Josh’s questions as snake man shuffled along the alley.

Geoffrey Mortimer - snake man, had earned his reptilian moniker for two reasons. One he kept snakes, two he looked remarkably like one. The skin on his face stretched to peeling point over a high boned brow and small flat nose.

A pale tongue tasted the air, darting from dry compressed lips, and his scant hair clung to a shiny liver spotted pate. He stood six three but weighed no more than 10 stone, adding weight (or lack of it) to the overall serpentine appearance.

A tin can found its target with a resounding thump. Geoffrey hissed and dabbed at his head with a filthy handkerchief. Blood. Those little bastards were at it again. His beady black eyes darted around the alley but found no one.

“Why don’t you clear off and leave an old man to go about his business in peace!?” he rasped.

Ace boldly stepped out.

“Because you’re not an old man you’re a snake, and you stink,” he picked up a brick. “It’s up to people like us to clean the streets of scum!”

Lucky for Geoffrey, this time the missile fell short. He hissed again and hurried away.

“I think you went a bit far,” Josh said “You made his head bleed; we were just supposed to scare him.”

“If you want to hang around with me shut up and behave OK?”
Josh nodded. He’d just moved there and he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Ace. Besides, he didn’t like the threatening look in his eye.

“Follow me!” Ace yelled sprinting off.

Ten minutes later they hid in the bushes outside a dilapidated terraced house.
“What are we doing?” panted Josh
“Quiet! Just do as I say.”

Geoffrey appeared seconds later and started to unlock the door. As he turned the handle Ace sprang up pushing him inside. Josh followed.

“What do you want? I’ve no money,” Geoffrey whined.
“You have snake man, and we want it.”

Josh didn’t like the way things were going.

“Ok we scared him, let’s go.”
“Go? No way! This man’s a pet killer, feeds em to his snakes. My dog Shandy went missing the other day.”
“These snakes are too little to eat pets!” Geoffrey pointed to a few docile worms asleep in tanks.
“Give us yer money.”
“I don’t...”
Ace flicked open a knife and speared the nearest snake.

This was enough for Josh - he ran out.

“Ok, please stop! Go through that door and open the door under the rug.”
Ace grinned and went in. He kicked back the rug and wrenched open the trap door.

It took a few minutes for the screams to stop but at last calm was restored. Geoffrey smiled indulgently as the constrictor began to swallow its meat.

“Looks like you won’t be needing that Alsatian for a while eh Boris?”he chuckled.

Mr Blue Sky

2010-10-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

Went to the opticians last week and had an eye test. You'd be pretty shocked if I said I had a filling now wouldn't you?

Anyway, apparently I have enlarged optic nerves. That's the important bit at the back of your eye ball that keeps your eyes glued to your brain. The optician said I needed to have photographs taken of the back of my eye to make sure there was no sign of glaucoma.

Well I tell you I nearly fell into one at the very mention of it! (a coma..do keep up). Thing was they couldn't do it 'til the following week. I shouldn't worry too much though she said as every other sign indicated normality - well obviously not complete normality as it is me we're talking about!

So anyway you can imagine all week I was worrying that the photos would show abnormality and I'd been on the Internet looking at all the horrid things associated with enlarged optic nerves. Tumours - all sorts! Too much information - scared myself witless.

This Friday morning I was driving to work - the photos were due to be done later that day. It was a particularly dark morning, cold, drizzly and miserable - I felt that winter had truly arrived. The cars all had their headlights on and every driver's face seemed to reflect my mask of woe.

Then on the radio came the old song Mr. Blue Sky by E.L.O. I loved it when it was in the charts when I was a teenager, but since those times have thought it sounded a bit cheesy.

For some reason listening to it again on that miserable morning it lifted my spirits. I half expected the dark clouds to part theatrically allowing the blue to shine through. And you know it is a very good bit of work. The orchestra and the 'bom bom bom' vocals toward the end are brilliant.

Maybe I didn't appreciate it as much when I was younger, maybe it had the advantage of nostalgia, maybe I'm crackers, but I thought... even if the photos bring bad news glaucoma or tumour, something worse I haven't had such a bad run.

I felt grateful for the life I had, and even if my sight failed I started to remember all the fantastic sights I had seen over the years.Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Pacific Ocean rollers, too many more to mention and of course the faces of my wonderful family and friends.

By the time I arrived at school (work) I felt sooo much better. Even the miserable drivers I passed on the way cheered up and began to sing along waving their arms in time to E.L.O.(no not really, that bit is a fib)

Well anyhow - the photos were duly taken that afternoon and thankfully they were OK! I have to keep my eye on them (pun was intended) and have the photos done every 3 years or so, but apart from that all is well.

So thanks E.L.O and I'll never think you were cheesy ever again, promise :)

Aphrodite

2010-10-21T23:17:00.000-07:00

I once read that an ‘upwelling’ was an oceanographic term describing the movement of nutrients to the surface of the water.
This phenomenon brings shoals of fish in huge numbers to feast on the bounty.

I was witnessing the human equivalent.

Her tanned body slipped from the pool.

Rivulets silver in the moonlight trickled from golden hair to breasts and hips - a liquid accentuation of curves.

A feeding frenzy of would be suitors offered towels, champagne and adoration.

She declined. I had her sole attention, her hand and her marriage vows.

They snapped their jaws and hunted elsewhere.

The Writer

2010-10-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

“So you didn’t win again? Not even bloody shortlisted! Give it up for God’s sake!”

He logged off and headed downstairs, but her demanding rant followed - drilled into his brain.

“How much have you chucked away this month on these bloody stupid competitions? “

“Not that much, a fiver here a fiver there,” he switched the radio on to drown her out.

It didn’t work.

“Yes but it all adds up doesn’t it eh? Have you seen those bills piling up over there since you decided to go part-time so you could swan about pretending to be a writer? ’I must follow my dream’ you say, all shiny eyed. You’re hardly sodding Martin Luther King are you?
And all the time you chuck good money after bad, month after month on these scribbling you call stories. They must see you coming and laugh all the way to the bank!”

“OK, I’ll cut back a bit, perhaps just enter two next month,” he poured a good glug of red and dived into it.

“Oh and when have we heard that one before huh? You can’t help yourself. It’s like you’re addicted, telling yourself you have a good feeling about a ‘story’...yup, this is the one. You’re like a broken record. What’s the old song by Tony Bennett? How’s it go now? Oh yeah, ‘maybe this time I’ll be lucky , maybe this time I’ll win’...well you don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance, so quit it.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and poured another.

“And you can forget buying that stuff soon as well. Wallowing in booze and self-pity is too expensive. In fact, go to see the boss on Monday, ask him if you can have the extra hours back. It’s time you came to your senses before we end up living under the bloody viaduct in a cardboard box!”

“There’s still the novels...I’m waiting on a couple of agents.”

“Oh please! If you can’t make it with the scribblings what chance do you have with novels?”

“For God’s sake shut up!” he threw the glass against the wall and fled back upstairs.

“Oh that’s mature. Artistic temperament is it? More like a bloody kid’s tantrum if you ask...”

He slammed the door cutting off his nagging conscience in mid rant.
At last a bit of quiet.

He took a deep breath and started typing.

Avalanche

2010-10-07T23:20:00.000-07:00

Colossal she’d called him.

He could handle lard ass, chubster, even blubber boy, but colossal was going one step beyond.

That step took him from pleasant obedient Alfie - lap poodle, to resentful vicious Alfonso - Rottweiler.

In his head of course, it was always only in his head. The things he’d pictured doing to her when he was Alfonso couldn’t be voiced - he’d be carted off to the secure unit.

Part of him secretly longed for that though. The padded cell, the protection of the straight jacket – she couldn’t get to him there, wound him with her throw away lacerations.

From the plush carpet he picked discarded clothing and dirty underwear, relishing their silky feel on his skin before depositing them in the laundry.

“For God’s sake blubber boy; you’re such a disgusting excuse for a human being!” she shouted from the bathroom.

“What do you mean?” he asked, already realising she’d seen him lingering over her knickers through the mirror.

“You know what I mean. Mind you that’s as close as you’ll ever get to a woman intimately, you being the size of a row of houses an all.”

“I’m not that fat Cassandra!”

“Wanna bet? If you got on top of a girl she’d feel like she’d been crushed by avalanche! Now book me that taxi I’ve to be at the studio in an hour, and make sure my liposuction’s sorted for tomorrow.”

Liposuction ... she looked like a stick insect already.
Nevertheless she was his stick insect and he worshipped her. He’d been her personal slave for the last five years, tending to her every need and whim.

Alfie loved that she needed him. That would have to be enough. He put up with her cruelty just to be near her.

She breezed in “Move aside… God, you really are colossal these days!”

Colossal again. Alfonso strained at the leash, his lips peeled back revealing razor sharp teeth.

“Come on move it lard ass or I’ll have to think of replacing you …”

Replacing him? Never! The leash snapped releasing the Rottweiler.

Suddenly she was under him.

Her eyes popped in horror as his massive weight crushed the breath from her.
Fat fingers pinched her nose and covered her mouth, her pitiful kicks made no impression on his bulk.

She lay still.

Suddenly the Rottweiler morphed to poodle.

“Cassandra?”

Nothing.

“Cassandra!”

The silence was overwhelming, massive... colossal.

Words

2010-10-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

I found out about Flash fiction only about a year ago. Well, when I say I found out about it, I kind of knew what it was as it popped up in competitions and such, but I'd previously dismissed the concept.

I couldn't see the point of squeezing a story into a word count of 500 words or below? Some Flash fiction can be of a 1000 words, but generally it tends to be fewer.

It seemed to me as if the whole thing was just about playing a literary game for the sake of it. Some pieces of flash I read seemed meaningless and flat, yet others I began to realise were very well executed.

What made these better pieces stand out was that every word counted. Each word had been carefully selected and considered to create maximum impact. The writer of Flash is denied the luxury to faff and frill around the edges of a story because of the word count.In order to engender the reader's empathy, invoke emotion, or induce a belly laugh, the words used must be tailor made for the task.

I had a few cracks at it, and I must say I really enjoyed the challenge. It became more than a literary game for it's own sake, and I found it really helped me focus on the message/meaning of the story. I tend to always have a message/meaning somewhere in my writing as I guess if it means nothing to me, why should it mean anything to anyone else?

Words have the power to sometimes change lives, the course of history, or just bring a smile to a sad face. We should harness that power in many different ways to enrich our lives.

At the moment I'm enjoying the Flash experience!

Hay Day

2010-09-18T03:41:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know you normally say heyday, but if you read on you'll understand.

On the 4th of June 2010 I attended the Hay-on Wye Guardian Literary Festival. I had my first short-story in print published in Gentle Footprints by Bridge House publishing.This charity anthology was created to raise funds and awareness for the Born Free Foundation. There is a foreword by Virginia McKenna OBE and a new story was written especially for it by Richard Adams author of Watership Down.

When I found out my story was to be included back in January I was over the moon! When I later discovered that we would be launched at Hay-on Wye I couldn't believe it! Then I was told the authors would get to meet Virginia McKenna...well you can imagine what I thought.

All of us were asked if we wanted to read an extract and I volunteered without hesitation. What possessed me I will never know.Debz from Bridge house said we may not get a chance as it was a tight schedule, and not to get our hopes up too much.

The 4th of June was absolutely perfect, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. We drove over from Bristol in the morning and my tummy was full of elephants doing cartwheels when my husband Brian and I arrived at The Swan to meet the rest of the authors and Virginia.

I needn't have worried as everyone was really lovely and Virginia was great. She signed my copy and asked me to sign hers! She chatted to me for some time and really put me at ease. Gill James from Bridge House asked if I was still up for reading an extract of my story. Paul Blezard who was interviewing Virginia said that there was just enough time for three of us to read for just under two minutes. I said 'Yep no problem', then she told me there was likely to be about a thousand people in the audience!

I was a bit nervous obviously, but to be honest I was calmer than I had a right to be. I reasoned that I would never have that chance again and should take all I could from that wonderful experience.

We had to go back stage and there were lots of sound people and such running about. Paul Blezard back ask who wanted to be first up and I volunteered again! He said that after he'd interviewed Virginia for a while, she'd then read her foreword and then he'd call my name and I should go up and straight to the lectern.

I was OK until the last few minutes waiting in the wings, then the elephants came back cartwheeling and dancing for all they were worth. My heart was actually trying to escape my rib cage when I heard my name, but up I went.

Thankfully the lights were so bright I couldn't actually see anyone in the audience and I just got on with it. The nerves went as soon as I opened my mouth. Everyone
said how well I did and was very proud of myself I don't mind saying.

Later we went to the book signing and a few people asked for my autograph on their copies! I couldn't believe it really, me being asked for my autograph for crying out loud. It was so exciting. A few said they had enjoyed my reading too - I was on cloud 9!

The whole day was so fantastic I didn't want it to end. It had to unfortunately, but I will always have brilliant memories to look back on.

I hope I get chance to do something like that again sometime. As a writer it made me feel like I had achieved so much. It also encouraged me to keep plugging away at my goal to become a published novelist one day.

You never know... stranger things have happened :)

War Babies

2010-09-10T06:17:00.000-07:00

My dad is going to be 82 in December, and my mum 83 this month. No great rarity these days you may say and you'd be right.

People now are living well into their 90s and beyond, often free of serious illness too.

But when you stop to think about it, it's pretty incredible really that people like my parents are still muddling through.

I mean just think about their childhood.They were 11 and twelve respectively in 1939 when war broke out. The year after saw Dunkirk, The Battle of Britain and the first Blitz.

They both lived in Sheffield which was hit pretty badly during the Blitz as it was a large industrial city. Both sets of grandparents decided against evacuation, so as a result my mum and dad lived through the worst of it.

I'm not sure children of today (and indeed adults)could conceive of what it must have been like for them. Their education was interrupted as schools were bombed and they had to have lessons in different houses each day.Sleep was disrupted nightly as the banshee wail of the sirens called them to the shelter, or cellar. Mum says it was awful particularly in winter when you'd just got warm in bed and then had to get up in the freezing cold.

My dad moved house in the Blitz and the day after, his old house was completely flattened. Another time he and his friends were playing in the old bombed out buildings and they pulled a curtain aside in a doorway. Looking back at them was a dead man, eyes open, but with lots of tiny blood vessels patterning his face. He had been killed by the blast.

My mum knew a lady who lived down her street who had lustrous auburn hair. That was how they identified her after an air raid. Her lovely hair was practically all that was left of her.

They never had counselling, they were expected to just get on with it. Counselling didn't exist back then, well not for the likes of my parents anyhow.

Dad gets a bit nervous now when he drives, but he is still able and competent. His car needed to go into the garage the other day, and it was in an area of Bristol which was unfamiliar to him. He followed in his car behind my husband in our car. As I watched him drive away with grim determination on his face, I had to admire him.

When he was a kid there was no space exploration, very little air travel, no Internet in fact no computers, microwaves, TV (well only for a few)and all the things we take for granted now. The roads were also much emptier and less complicated to negotiate.

The impact of war on his formative years and on thousands like him, coupled with the rapid expansion of technology and the speed of life now makes my experience pretty tame. In comparison to the lives of the war babies, mine has been a charmed existence.

Of course I realise I have seen great changes too and that everything is relative. When and if I get to be an octogenarian things will have raced on again.

One thing that will mark my old age out from my dad's is I had a much better start. When I was 11 I didn't go to bed wondering if I'd wake up the next day, or live in fear of a Nazi invasion. I think that sometimes people just forget just how horrific it must have been living through it all.

Unfortunately some old people today are shoved away into underfunded and under staffed hospitals and homes, and seen as useless unproductive members of society.
Well I'd like to take my hat off to the war babies and those who fought too.

I can't begin to know what they went through, and I'm eternally thankful that I never had to know.

A Blog a Day

2010-09-07T10:44:00.000-07:00

I have not blogged for three whole days and am thoroughly ashamed
of myself:(

When I started a week and a half ago I was determined to do a blog a day.
Why a blog a day? Because it keeps the apple away. Hang on...no that's not right is it? It seems like my brain is becoming addled weak and feeble as I type.

It's my own fault really for being lazy and bloggless. To blog is to be healthy, alert and sharp witted. Not to blog is ...er...what was I saying just then?
Oh dear, I really am getting in a muddle. Just wait a minute, there's someone knocking on the door.

Turned out to be a door to door blogger selling the blogger's bible. I thought I'd better buy it. Now let's see what's contained therein.

Oh, well, that's not so bad then. I've just looked at the rules of blogging section and found that it isn't vital to blog every day, but only when you have something interesting to say. Thank goodness, I don't feel nearly so bad now.

If you are still reading...that'll larn ya! Ha!

No really, I'm grateful to you for taking an interest. I hope too that you have internalised the moral of this particular blog.

If you have, then please let me know what it is;)

Yours esoterically, and possibly hysterically,

M xx

Last Man Syndrome

2010-09-04T09:18:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember I have always kicked against doing anything I didn't want to do. I hate having to be at a certain place at a certain time and feeling trapped once I am there.

When I was a kid, I'd always be the last one walking through the school gates, my school bag dragging behind me along with my bottom lip.
When I'd left school I used to get a lift in to work with my brother and his girlfriend. I'd always be the 'last man' out of bed and into the car. It wasn't as if I hated school or my job as a hairdresser, it was just the having to do it there and then. Mind you thinking about it I did hate school.

Later when I went back into education to get A levels and a degree it wasn't so bad. It was my choice, so I guess that was why I didn't resent it.
I went into teaching for 14 years and 'last man syndrome' crept back pretty quickly.

I kind of liked it for the first five years or so, because teaching is not as soul destroying as some jobs. I worked in a factory for a while packing drill bits so I do know what I'm talking about.

Then the old nagging started. A little voice in my head would say stuff like 'Bloody school bells, my life is governed by bells!' or stuff like, 'You have only got one life and you're spending it in the same building day after day, year after year...'

Lucky for me I was able to pack it all in for 18 months. I wanted to pursue my dream of becoming a full-time writer and it was brilliant. Last man syndrome was banished and I felt in control of my life, well as much as anyone can be on a shoe string budget. Bells, clocks and deadlines were a thing of the past.

I had to bite the bullet and return to the chalk face in January and boy did that hurt.The students are nice, and so are the part-time hours, but the last man syndrome is alive and kicking once more. I need to do some work for Monday tomorrow but I expect I'll find a few diversions until I can put it off no longer.I wish I could just accept having to go out to work like thousands of others have to.

I don't expect I'll ever get used to being made to do something I don't want to though.
The alarm clock will wake me early on Monday, and later I expect I'll be the last in at the school gate, my bag dragging behind me... along with my bottom lip.

Ignorance is Bliss

2010-09-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

#Friday Flash
Barry was really glad that nobody was around when his head exploded.
They’d been telling him all his life that he thought about everything too much, and that no good would ever come of it.

Ever since he was a little boy he’d asked the obligatory questions about why the world was round, the sky blue and such, but he’d never been satisfied with the answers.
Immediately upon hearing them he’d say ‘but why wasn’t it designed to be square or triangular even?’ and ‘yes but what exactly makes it blue?’

His parents imagined that when he grew up he’d grow out of it. Their imagination was way off beam. They watched helplessly as Barry became a solitary young man, Gollumesque from always skulking indoors hidden from sunlight.
He poured over mountains of books and became glued to his computer in his tireless quest for answers.

Barry realised that others thought he was a geek, a freak, a weirdo. One day he’d show them. He’d find out the meaning of life, the origin of the universe, and everything that the most eminent scientists of today were still puzzling over. He’d be hailed the greatest brain in history and everyone would worship at his altar.

It would have happened too if he’d not ignored his instincts.

An hour ago Barry was on the brink of discovering who made God. The question that everyone has heard at one time or another, ‘if God made the universe, who made God?’ was almost at his fingertips. He then had a very bad feeling sweep over him like an angel of death.
Every fibre of his being said leave this alone Barry, walk away Barry, this secret is meant to remain just that for all eternity. If you expose it you may not be around to tell the tale.
Did he listen? Did he hell.

Under his arm was a piece of paper. Evidence that would rock the world once he reached the Royal Society buildings.

Now look at him. Here he was, a human version of Humpty Dumpty, the shell of his egg head spiralling skyward, fragmenting and expanding - speeding into the stratosphere and the distant universe beyond.

His last thought was ‘I wonder why the guy with the long white beard looks so pissed off.”

Happy September

2010-09-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

Lots of people on Facebook voted for for my story, so really happy about the support. One or two commented that they really enjoyed it too.

Just got an email from the site to say I have been commended for having the most votes in 24hrs! So hopefully that can only help!So September has kicked off well in that respect.

I'm off to finish a piece of flash fiction now about a man who's head explodes because he thinks too much.

See you soon.

The Kindness of Strangers

2010-08-31T05:24:00.000-07:00

Woke up this morning a teensy bit grumpy. Didn't sleep too well and I have to return to school tomorrow.
It's only an Inset day (or insect day as I prefer to call it), but it signals the end of having my my full-time writer's head on.

I told myself 'carpe diem', (see last post to make full sense of this), and switched on my trusty laptop.

My day got a whole lot brighter when I saw two really nice comments from strangers about two of my stories on the Shortbread Stories website.

It continued to shine, when later on Nina from Prima Magazine put my link about a short story on their Twitter page. Prima has over 1,000 followers and hopefully some of them will read it. Just in case you would like to vote for it here it is. http://authortrek.com/short-stories/2010/08/31/against-all-odds-by-mandy-k-james/
Thanks to anyone reading this who did vote too.

This kindness just reaffirmed my belief that most people are goodies, and that they will try to give you a leg up when they can, rather than kick you in the shins.

Hope this little ray of sunshine will continue tomorrow morning when I hear the banshee wail of the alarm clock!

Bye for now :)

Who Knows Where The Time Goes?

2010-08-30T08:14:00.000-07:00

I watched a few old home videos over the weekend. Brian my husband has been trying to put them onto DVD, but it takes up so much time.

On the question of time, who knows where it goes?

On the holiday videos we all look so young, yes I know that's because we were.

Though you forget don't you until you see a youthful face looking out at you from a long ago scene.

The wedding video was the most telling. Some of the people on it are now departed, and my daughter now twenty eight and expecting a baby was a child herself back then. Her cousin has a one year old now, but then aged nine was concerned with showing the camera a crooked tooth.

The thing is, it's all a bit scary. It was 17 years ago but it seems like yesterday, well OK perhaps a bit longer but you get my drift.

Bettte Davis once said 'Old age ain't no place for sissies' and I think she was right. I'm not old yet but at the rate the time is galloping past I soon will be.
Whoever said the carpe diem thing was right too. We need to make the most of every day and go for it. Each day is precious and should be seized and shaken 'til every last second has been scattered productively across life's fertile fields...hey, that's a bit poetic isn't it?

I may be getting older but I have lots to look forward to, especially the arrival of my first grandchild early next year.

Any road up, today I did a rewrite on one of my stories and bunged it into another competition at the last minute. I wasn't going to bother but, you have to be in it to win it I guess. It's up to me what I make of each day.

I wonder how I'll be feeling in another 17 years time? I guess that will be up to me too.

Yours philosophically

M x

Of Mice and Cats

2010-08-29T03:05:00.000-07:00

Morning everyone.

I am especially qualified to say this today as I have been up for most of it. I'm still in my dressing gown as we speak, can you believe it? What do you mean yes?

Anyhow, I went to the loo at 5.30 as you do, and our cat Sebastian was crouched over the bathroom scales. Now I know he's overweight, but I'm not sure he's that concerned about it.

His tail was twitching and he looked at me for help. That look told me there was some poor unfortunate creature hiding under the scales. Now me, I hide from the bathroom scales.
When I looked sure enough there was a little mouse looking up obviously scared sh...well you know how much. If not I'll tell you in a minute.

I went back to the bedroom and got my empty drinking glass (yes water glass in case you are wondering), found a bit of card, and returned armed to rescue the thing.

Luckily Sebastian by now had decided to go outside as he was bored with the whole process.It was relatively easy to catch it for once. On past mouse hunts I have had to tip all the sofas over to retrieve them. This time I just caught it in the glass and put the card on top.It was a weird little creature. It had a pale face and brown body. Any ideas what type it could be?

Out I went in my dressing gown, (yes the same one as I'm wearing now)), to the top of the garden and tipped the poor thing under the shed. When I looked in the glass on the way back down the path it had sent me a message about how scared it actually was!

I wonder why we share our lives with these predators? They are such a nuisance.But then have a look at the photos of my babies (cats) on the blog and you'll see why we do.

At least the mouse was only under the scales not in my boot as it was last winter.
Not a good start to the day rushing to work and then finding something wriggling under your foot is it?

Well I'd better get dressed as it is nearly noon after all.

TTFN x

Who am I?

2010-08-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

I have often ask myself this question!

I am a writer first and foremost but teach part-time to pay the mortgage.

Well at last I have decided to start a blog. My husband Brian has been on at me for ages to do it but I thought it was a bit pretentious. I mean yes I've had a short story published as you can see from my photo, but I'm hardly J K Rowling.
Recently though other friends of mine have blogs for lots of different reasons. Some use them as a place to voice their opinions and to chat to other like minded people. I like to do both those things so here I am.

I was and still am immensely proud of my first success in print though (you can't tell that from the photo can you?), and I have quite a few short stories online. I had a story in Prima in June too.

Hopefully when I have got the hang of this blogging thing I'll put my stories on here . I have written two novels and have nearly finished a third. I of course would love to see them published, so I live in hope of that.

I have recently discovered the wonderful world of Twitter too.
Hang on, does that sound like an owl? Anyway, if any of my new Twitter friends or indeed any of my old friends would like to follow this blog then please feel free!

Back soon x