All in a Day’s Work

by Barbara A.Rope


Tension mounts in my stomach as I walk towards the room, its windows are covered in closed, almost colourless, Venetian blinds. I’ve no choice, I have to enter and meet the mother and child. I take a deep breath and knock gently to announce my arrival. A soft female voice answers. I enter the room and smile towards the young woman who has just risen from her chair. She looks about twenty years old, but could be younger. Her hair hangs in an unkempt tangle to her shoulders. Her face tired and drawn, yet she forces a welcoming smile. I acknowledge her and look towards the child.
I find it hard to break the silence and walk to the bedside reaching out for the child’s hand.
“So this is Amy,” I say trying to keep any emotion out of my voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” asks the mother.
Now the awkward silence has been broken I turn to her.
“No. You can stay if you want. You know why I’m here don’t you?”
I run my thumb across the back of Amy’s tiny warm hand as I speak to her.
“Yes I know,” she replies smiling a weak forlorn smile. Her eyes rimmed with red, from tears and lack of sleep.
I desperately want to hug the young woman whom I have never met before in my life. Where do people like her find such courage and kindness I think? But I’ve work to do and I arranged my equipment accordingly.
“Will Amy feel anything when you do the test,” the mother asks.
I shake my head as she observes my every move. The clicking and hissing of the ventilator by the bedside accompanies our every comment. I turn my attention to Amy.

*

I run my hand across her little chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. She looks like a doll, her face like a Botticelli cherub. The rainbow coloured dungarees outline her tiny frame. She looks lost in the bed surrounded by equipment. I stroke her pink cheek with my finger and look trance like at her long curling eyelashes that cover her closed eyes. Slowly and gently I start to undress her, the smell of baby powder permeates the air.
“It was an accident you know?” the mother starts to explain.
“Yes. I know,” I answer.
“It all happened so quickly,” she speaks in a rapid fashion.
She needs me to know it wasn’t her fault.
“She’s only eighteen months old. We were crossing the road and we came to an island in the middle. I didn’t realise the strap holding her in the pushchair wasn’t fastened. When I went down the kerb she fell out onto the road,” her voice stops.
I turn to look behind me at the young woman in the chair. She sits motionless, reliving the horrendous moment when her child’s head had made contact with the road.
I have my moment and bend down to hug this poor desperate woman. She doesn’t weep or cry she holds me close and hard, almost bruising my upper arms.
After a while I brush back the damp tangle of hair on her forehead.
“Would you like a cool drink or anything? I’ll stay with Amy if you want me to?” I ask.
“No. I know I haven’t got much longer with her. I’ll stay here, if that’s alright?”
I nod, choked that this traumatic accident should involve this lovely young woman and her child. I continue to undress Amy, talking to her as if she were awake.

*

I press my thumbs onto the adhesive electrodes so they become less sticky therefore less painful on removal, not that it matters. I place each one onto the appropriate area. I record the electrical activity of Amy’s heartbeat and read it as it comes out of the machine. She has a healthy normal heart.
“Is it alright?” asks her mother.
“Yes. That’s fine,” I answer.
I gently peel off the electrodes from Amy’s porcelain like skin. Write on the recording to identify each measurement, my work almost complete.
“Will you be with her when…”asks her mother.
“Yes. In about an hour’s time, we have everything ready. The doctor will be here soon to explain everything, if you have any more questions.”
The mother rises and escorts me to the door.
“Thank you,” she says.
My eyes well with tears as I reach forward to her and take hold of her hands
“Thank you,” I emphasise. “Not many people have your strength and wisdom at a moment like this,” I continue holding her hands.
“Will you look after her when they operate,” she asked.
“Of course,” I answer.

*

A team of theatre staff prepare for the arrival of Amy. She arrives with all her equipment and we commence the surgery. The healthy beating heart is removed and quickly transferred to an icebox, whisked away for transplant into a more fortunate child.
Amy’s small body lies colourless, like a waxen doll. I peel of the electrodes and help to wash her tiny frame. Great love and care is given as I take out the drips and pressure lines, they are of no use anymore. I along with some of the nurses kiss Amy gently on her forehead as she is wrapped in a mortuary sheet.

I sit in the staff room with all the team; none of us feel like talking. But the day is young and we all have more work to do. Two hours later whilst we are preparing for our next patient the telephone rings. Amy’s heart has been successfully transplanted into a baby girl. The gift of transplant has given hope and happiness for the future to some unknown child. My spirits lift as I think of the courage of the young mother and the strength shown by her. Baby Amy has given new life and in doing so has touched the lives of so many other people.

The Writing Life Playground

The Writing Life Playground

A Fairy Story

A Fairy Story

He was going to see the fairies. Naturally he did not tell Amanda. His daughter would have given him one of her "more in sorrow than anger" looks and said, 'Oh Dad, you know there aren't really any fairies. It's all in your imagination'. Or, even worse, 'That'll be fun. I'll come with you. I've never seen these elusive creatures.'

Of course she hadn't Jim thought. Fairies are choosy about who they reveal themselves to. Those who don't believe in the first place will never be one of the privileged ones.

He waited until Amanda went to the supermarket before leaving the house. First he called in at the churchyard and stood by his wife's grave. In his memory she would forever be young and beautiful and still he missed her. After a couple of minutes he realised with some surprise that he had no shoes on. Socks but no shoes. Never mind, he would be back home before Amanda. She need never know and it was a warm day. He moved on.

The copse where the fairies lived was just a short walk from the village. He made his way to the clearing, sat down on a fallen tree and waited. He felt immensely happy. How peaceful this place was, how calm and, well, undemanding. Amanda was the best of daughters but he often felt anxious. He didn't want to worry her but he sometimes did something silly like putting his glasses in the fridge. All day he felt the need to check everything he did and sometimes was exhausted with the effort of it all. Here, in this private place, he could relax.

*********************

Amanda was away longer than she had intended. Parking was horrendous, there were long queues at the checkout and a hold up in the traffic. She could feel the stress building up. Perhaps she should have taken Dad with her but he became anxious in crowded places.

'Dad,' she called as soon as she opened the front door. 'Dad, I'm back.' No answer. She checked downstairs, then the bathroom and his bedroom. His television was on, his shoes in their usual place. 'Not again,' she said out loud. 'Please not again.'

She quickly searched the rest of the house and looked round the garden but she knew she would not find him. She ran back to the car. Where to look first? She drove to the church. Dad often visited her mother's grave. On his better days he would do a
little weeding, arrange some flowers in the urn. That was fine; Amanda knew where he was. Now she had no idea.

Her dad had lived all his life in this village. As a boy he had had freedom to roam and knew the village and surrounding countryside intimately. He could be anywhere. She suddenly thought of the disused quarry and panic surged through her. It was fenced
off but that would not deter someone intent on reliving boyhood adventures.

She was about to drive away from the churchyard when the vicar came out of the church. She called to him. 'Gerald, have you seen dad at all? He was gone when I got back from the shops.' She closed her eyes. 'I should never left him. He was a bitvague today.'

Gerald was aware of the problems. 'Don't be hard on yourself, Amanda. You can't watch him every minute.' he said. 'Actually I did glimpse him. I was going to have a word but by the time I got out he had gone.' He paused. 'He looked happy but what I
think of as "away with the fairies". You know, in a place of his own.'

That gave her an idea. 'Thanks Gerald,' she said. 'I think I know where he might be'.

She drove to the edge of the copse then made her way quietly to the clearing and there he was. The tension oozed from her. She felt weak with relief, immediately followed by anger. How dare he worry her so. She was close to tears.

Jim looked up and saw her. 'Hallo love,' he said. He looked round uncertainly and she saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. He could not recall coming to this place. That happened sometimes and it frightened him. As quickly as it had come, her anger faded. She went to him and held out her hand.

'I thought I would come and give you a lift back,' she said gently. ' Did you enjoy your stroll?'

He was now having one of his lucid times and he said ruefully, 'Sorry if I worried you again. I'm a silly old fool sometimes, aren't I?'

Amanda remembered all the times he had waited up for her in her wild teenage years; recalled the occasions he had turned out in the small hours to pick her up when she was stranded. It must have been hard for him to bring up a daughter alone she thought as well as cope with the grief of losing a beloved wife.and she was filled with love. She put her arm through his. 'Maybe,' she said lightly, 'but you'restill the world's best dad.'

It was important he knew that.

© Ivy Finch 2006

The Magic Castle

I was looking everywhere for this to send out as the 'Fiction Hints' but ended up writing a new one. I think this is better. It originally appeared on my 'Imageweavers' site. By the way, I'm back and emails are okay again.

The weather was rarely the same for two hours. Each day was a mixture of spring, summer, autumn and winter, usually in the wrong order. Only by walking in it could we appreciate the reality, the freshness of its nature, the raging moods and gentle changes in the terrain.

Birds settled in their nooks and the waves kept on coming. Clouds dispersed and reformed, mutated, shed dark tears and glistened with silver trinkets. Rocks and slippery paths underfoot fought with the urge to look all around, up ahead, fly in the sky and be at one with gulls who hovered over us like guardian angels.

We stayed at a farm opposite this magical castle and walked into Stonehaven, two miles away, for our evening meal. That was after a day of exploring the coast; sitting on a rock to just watch and listen; perching on a cliff top to eat sandwiches; watching some brave local athletes doing a triathlon based around the beach and leisure centre; sipping real ale called Dark Isle that was as black as melted shoe polish in a cask-smelling pub; and then heading back to the B&B for a sleep and to get changed to walk out again.

I would tell you the history of Dunnottar Castle but it's better to just go there and read the few plaques that tell you about the ruins. The only history that's important to us is the fact we first went there together 30 years ago, even before we were married. If that makes me sound old then I'll race you down the 179 steps. And you can carry me back up.

© Bernie Ross 2006

TEMPORARY BLIP

If you've tried to email me and it 'bounced' try image.weaver@tiscali.co.uk which seems not to get bocked up so quickly.

Love Bern

Scary

A Short Story by Paul Mercer
I don’t really know what I am feeling as I lie here in absolute darkness trying to understand where I am and what I might be doing here. It is a strange sort of feeling, rather scary really. I know that I am lying on my back with my arms pinned down by my sides, and my legs are straight out in front of me and close together as if bound by some hidden force, and apart from being able to move my fingers and toes, my legs and arms are firmly fixed. Where the hell am I? I try to move my head from side to side but nothing happens; it simply will not move. It’s almost as if it is fixed in a vice. I can blink my eyes and puff my cheeks, but that is about all I am able to do. Also whatever I am lying on is very hard on my aging bones, and sharp pain is gnawing at me where my shoulder blades, unprotected by layers of body fat feel as if they were supporting the Eiffel Tower. But what the hell am I lying on, and why?

Then the strong smell of fresh pine wood invades my nostrils and I realise that I must be in some sort of a wooden box. But why would I be in a wooden box? None of this is making any sense. What the hell is going on?

Then with a sudden jolt to my brain it all comes flooding back to me. The argument. That is the last thing that I remember, arguing with her. God but she is a real pain in the arse, always right, never wrong. If I said black she would say white, and to top it all she is more holy than Christ himself. Anyway back to the argument. We had just finished eating a light supper consisting mainly of cheese and tomato sandwiches, and I was in the final stages of finishing a glass of white wine that she had poured for me earlier when out of the blue she decided it was time to pillory me by mentioning, as she liked to call them, ‘my many inadequacies’. This time it is all to do with my inability to perform like Nijinsky between the sheets. The horse that is, not the ballet dancer. I mean to be honest if you saw her without her clothes on you would understand why I am so reluctant. She is a little like a Michael Angelo sculpture before the first chip, bulky and not very pretty to look at. Well she went on and on until with a defiant stance I told her what she could do with her libido. She fired back at me and told me that if she had known just how useless I really was then she would never have married me. We were still at it hammer and tongues when the door bell suddenly rang. That is the last thing I remember until now. What the hell is happening to me?

I am still pondering this conundrum when I suddenly hear a deafening roar. It sounds like a giant uncontrolled blow torch belching out the fiery flames from hell.

Now with a fearful reality I know exactly where I am and what I am doing here.

I have been an Industrial Gas Engineer all of my working life and I have heard that sound on so many occasions when testing the most powerful industrial gas jets known to man.

I am cocooned in a wooden coffin that is passing through the incinerator section of a crematorium, and I have less than one minute to live.

The End

© Paul Mercer 2006

Swearing in Writing

Everywhere you go, you hear it. If it isn’t the ‘F’ word then it’s ‘bloody’ this or ‘for God’s sake’ that: it seems blasphemy and profanities are part of everyday life. You might use swear words in letters to friends but not in business letters, certainly not in a covering letter to a publisher. But what’s the situation regarding fiction?

It depends on your audience.

A story for a women’s magazine is unlikely to print an expletive stronger than, “Oh drat!” whilst the independent press, particularly the horror, fantasy and slipstream genres expect realistically raw characters with no holds barred. Literary fiction – which crosses all genres really – expresses exactly what it wants to say without censors or conventions: swear words are unlikely to be taboo here. Crime, westerns, chic-lit and lad lit would all be pretty bowdlerized without them.

So why tread carefully in Writing Life and Playground?

It’s true I don’t like gratuitous swearing and I can’t bear bad language in a piece of writing that’s badly written and spelled but on the whole the occasional swear word helps to make a letter or piece of dialogue within a story more lively. If I swear in your feedback letters it’s because it expresses most precisely what I want and need to say.

Perhaps a naughty word never passes your lips? Ah, but as a fiction writer you become an actor on paper, you create and get inside your characters’ personalities! Swearing therefore has permission – here and now – to fall onto your page straight from your head without audible evidence that you even know what the bad word means. And sex: yes please, we’re adults.

© Bernie Ross 2006

Postcard from South Africa

One of the things I ask of new students registering for the course is that if their writing life is interrupted they stay in touch with me so I know they’re still wanting to write. Lots of students fall by the wayside and I don’t know if it’s because they don’t want to write anymore, or feel downtrodden, or forgot to stay in touch. But not Steve Goldsmith! This is the postcard he sent me from South Africa where he’s been doing voluntary work with rhinos and baboons. Among other things he says, “Table Mountain was a challenging climb but nothing compared to trying to convince an infant baboon not to go to the toilet on my head!” He looks forward to continuing the course on his return.

~ Bernie

Love Fuels Love

They say the preparations for a big wedding are all part of ‘the dance’, the bonding process; and I think a similar unity came into play for our 30th anniversary party. Let me get one thing straight immediately: we are not the partying type.

Since our 25th we’ve regularly celebrated with a trip to Scotland but this year we’re both going there in May so organising the travelling, not to mention the expense, all seemed a bit much. Besides, our garden is always at its best in April, with daffodils and primroses, tulips and blossom. Our friends and relatives should see it at its best . . . so we planned an open day: a garden party.

The invitations went out at Christmas saying, ‘Put it in your diary’; ‘Bring a folding chair’; and ‘With our collective positive thinking the sun will shine!’

Fat chance, it seemed, when the cold wind continued blowing and the daffodils remained little more than green spikes to within a week before. But then the sun warmed up and so did the soil.
Out of nearly 80 people invited it seemed nearly 50 would come, rain or shine. Was I mad?

30 years marriage to a one-time autocrat, punctuated with some near bust-ups has made me assertive: “If you turn the house upside down or get pedantic, I won’t do it,” I said, “they’ll take us as they find us.” And, “If you get the hump, I’ll cancel,” I threatened. Then, “Stop your sarcasm!” I ordered when I’d got better things to do, and, “Chill out!” when temperatures began to rise.

Food on the table, drinks on another, flowers everywhere and the grass freshly mown, the arrival of the ‘children’ and grandchildren heralded the beginning and they all mucked in to help. There was immediate interest in the storyboard I’d created from photos depicting ‘Our Lives Together’ with a brief but honest commentary.

Then at 1pm on the day, the guests began to drift in. My sisters, Rod’s brothers, friends from the pub, our neighbours, Rod’s climbing mates, my ex-colleagues, old school friends and more: everyone mixed and chatted. There were no barriers, no formalities, no speeches, no accidents . . .

The things that made it really special were:

* Relatives I’d not seen for years travelled hundreds of miles just for the afternoon’s celebration.
* People from all walks of life mixed in the most unlikely way – publicans with artists, computer buffs with ‘dinosaurs’.
* Nearly everyone wore warm clothes and sat happily outside making space to get at the food and storyboard indoors.
* My son's work in preparing the whole afternoon's music on computer in advance, playing it; and then giving us a live guitar rendition at the end.
* My daughter telling me, as she left, that I’d looked calm and happy all day.
* Nearly everyone signed our Visitors’ Book: a memento we intend to keep and perpetuate when we relocate to distant lands.

Our collective positive thinking worked!

Me? I enjoyed the day – the whole weekend – more than our wedding day 30 years ago. Love fuels love and when it seems to have depleted I recommend you pretend it’s still there, because it grows. The challenge, of course, awaits us with the next 30 years.

© Bernie Ross 2006

Who'll Take the Chair ?

Who’ll Take the Chair?

by Barbara A. Rope

Schoolrooms and restaurants cannot function without them. The banquets in great halls wouldn’t quite be the same if tables had no companions to complete the room. After a good meal it’s good to sit down.
Fun loving, funky, free spirited and cheeky all describe chairs to entice you to buy. Plastic for leisure, ergonomic or stacking, massage machines incorporated within. Contemporary and classic they are all in the catalogues, just choose the one that suits you. After choosing, lie back; it’s good to relax.
I look around the house and see the movable four legged seats with a rest for our backs. After a busy day it’s good to sit down.
The variation is endless, they are designed for living and comfort.
They stand elegant and stylish in each of our homes, chosen for colour and texture, in beech, walnut or oak. Upholstered in materials of our choice
It’s a seat for one person. They began with authority to show who’s in charge. From Caesars to Popes, the chair has evolved. Bedecked and bejewelled with fine metals and pearls, adorned with silk and materials of style. The chair of the Bishop is known by its name, we copy the image and transfer it outside.
A model drapes herself around one and I see beauty and grace.
Photographs make them famous for supporting this scene, a statement of fashion to light up my eyes.
Turn on the radio and slip off your shoes and hear about more chairs, they are making the news. A Sheriff out West has used one before, it helps people so they don’t harm or be harmed. Listen harder, a seatbelt is mentioned for restraint. Turn up the volume and believe what you hear, he’s exporting them to Guantanamo Bay. Not for comfort or style or panache , but for forced feeding prisoners, these metal, movable four legged seats with a rest for the back.
It’s hard to sit down when you think of this chair. The hurt it causes, the pain and despair. The image it brings in my head is abhorrent. I thought we’ve moved on from torture with chairs.

Nun Shot Dead

The following was originally written for an exercise set by Bernie. The remit was to pick a newspaper headline and, without reading the report, write a short piece of no more than 250 words based on the headline. I have expanded it as a short, short story.

NUN SHOT DEAD

The theme of the party was Saints and Sinners. As soon as I put on the nun's outfit I had hired I felt different. Sort of virginal. Me? Virginal? That's a laugh. But I went along with the image. I applied my make up very discreetly, pushed my long blonde hair under the severe head dress and then practised looking demure. It occurred to me that some of the fellas might find all this a bit of a turn on. The party could be very interesting particularly if there was someone dressed as, say, the devil. What a pair we
would make!

I threw some overnight things into a bag. Drink would be taken and I would probably have to crash on the couch, then I went to my car. Parking being what it is in London, I had to walk some way down the street in full nun's fig to reach it, but as there is a convent close by no one took any notice. Except, that is, for a man lurking in a shop doorway on the other side of the road. I use the word lurking advisedly. He could not have looked more furtive if he tried and I smiled to myself.

It was my ex. It's a year since we split but he won't give up. The last thing he said when I finally found the guts to throw him out was, 'You've not seen the last of me. If I can't have you no-one will.'

It's the full works. Silent phone calls, waiting outside my office, staring up at my windows for hours at a time. You could call it stalking I suppose but I decided long ago that I would not give him the satisfaction of thinking it bothers me. He'll get fed up eventually.

So, I gave him a cheery wave and blew him a kiss. See if I care was the message I was sending. I could see the look of fury on his face even from a distance. Good, I thought, GOOD, and got into my car.

It was a great party. Next day those of us who had stayed over went out for lunch then I went home. As I parked the car, I was aware that there seemed to be an unusual number of police about. Terrorist alert? Demonstration? You get used to it but then I
found that the entrance to my road was cordoned off with one of those ribbon things which said: Police. Do not Cross. There was a young constable standing guard so I explained that I lived there and asked what was going on.

All he would tell me was that there had been an unexplained death. 'I'll escort you to your flat madam,' he said, 'but you must stay indoors for the time being. We will want to talk to you later.'

As soon as he had gone, I tuned into Radio London and there it was. A nun returning from an errand of mercy in the small hours had been shot and fatally wounded. There did not appear to be a motive.

I stared at the overnight bag which I had thrown on the floor. The nun's habit was in there and the full horror of what had happened hit me. I remembered the look of hatred on my ex's face when I waved to him on my way to the party, I recalled what he had said when I threw him out a year earlier. 'If I can't have you no-one else will,' and I knew with sickening certainty just who that bullet had been intended for.

© Ivy Finch 2006

The Art of Writing at its Best

Woman’s World, a novel by Graham Rawle is endorsed on the cover by Joanna Lumley: ‘As mad and believable as a dream’. This description is so accurate she deserves a medal for it, and the author deserves something better than the Booker Prize and Turner Prize put together. The novel is a real work of art.

I’m apparently unusual because I can read this whole book where the typeface varies in size and style from word to word or more. It’s like a book of ransom notes. The text is put together in a collage of words and letters from women’s magazines. It was hyped up as an object of curiosity at its launch in the broadsheet papers in the autumn of 2005, which was what made me put it on my Christmas List. When I showed it off as a prize gift from my husband people looked at a few pages and said, “God, I couldn’t read a whole book like that!” I put my ability to do so down to being used to all manner of manuscripts. How lucky I am, this novel has restored my faith in good fiction as art.

The narrator is Norma Little who calls herself Norma Fontaine and is the epitome of femininity. She shows us this from page one and reveals herself to be a highly perfectionist, narcissistic lady of leisure with a housekeeper and a brother whom she adores. “…My entire day is filled with womanly pursuits and the house is alive with feminine appeal.” You soon get used to her exaggerated self-admiration and over-the-top obsession with all things feminine. This is, after all, the early 1960s, after the oppression of the war years and emergence into the colourful freedom of red stiletto shoes and bright artificial flowers. One feels an immediate rapport with this woman’s dedication to escapism.

I settled happily into reading each page as it came with this in mind; and the sudden explosions of words like Soap Pads! next to, ‘an intimate portrait of a modern woman’, or Hovis just kept me riveted. The artist makes wonderful use of snippets of advertising copy, beautifully woven into the narrative giving Norma’s voice a fascinating edge of dreamlike déjà vu. Anywhere else it would seem contrived but here it simply adds to the escapism, you’re compelled to read on because you know there’s more to Norma than the pristine make-up and hair. After all, she describes in astute detail the road accident scene in the first chapter so that without gory language or resorting to horror we know she’s ready to tell the truth.

There is something fabulous about the prose in this book, even though it’s so artificial and Norma is so vain. I cannot replicate the styles of fonts but believe me there are many, including an Ecclesiastic design in the excerpt that follows.

‘She always has to know everybody’s business. I’d a good mind to stare back at her in defiance, but the postman was vying for my attention.
“A parcel for the gentleman of the house,” he announced, eyeing my neat but generously proportioned figure with sharp blackcurrant eyes.
“My brother, Roy, isn’t here. He’s in the Himalayas, daring to pit human courage and skill against Nature.” I wasn’t quite sure why I’d said it; it wasn’t strictly true.
The postman’s goggling eyes were the deep blue of two enamel pans in the sink, and in his eyes there was frank admiration, cleverly masked by a keen look of indifference.
He leaned down and picked up a parcel from his postbag. “I’ll need you to sign for it,” he said, holding out a fountain pen. “But first give me your name.”
We continued to stand and stare at each other, until he said again: “What’s your name?”
“If you want to know you can guess,” I retorted playfully.
“Quite the little spitfire, aren’t you?” The amusement in his tone stung like wasps on a baby’s bottom.’

What appeals to me especially about this book is its surreal use of images and ideas. Not being a Guardian reader I knew nothing of Graham Rawle as an artist/illustrator but whilst reading I was in no doubt that he’s also a very skilled writer. Characterisation, pacing, prose, suspense and satisfaction – it’s all there and when I got to the end I wanted more! In recent months I’ve had a malaise over reading fiction. Nothing grabbed me, gave a thrill of excitement or intrigue and I wondered if my profession had killed it for me. Not so, I have found a book that I’m sure I’ll read again, perhaps year after year, for its sheer entertainment value.

If you’re not sure you’ve the dedication to attempt the book and haven’t yet met this man’s work I urge you to visit http://www.grahamrawle.com/Shop/shop1.html where you’ll get a taste of his wonderful humour.

Woman’s World by Graham Rawle, Creator of Lost Consonants is published by Atlantic Books, hardback. ISBN 1 84354 367 2

Some gems from the archives

When you run an evening class you’re constantly looking out for different ways of saying what needs to be said. For years I had ‘document wallets’ full of cuttings and notes to myself of things that might be useful; and in my recent paperwork purge I whittled them down to a few unusual pieces worth airing. The rest are so firmly entrenched in my brain that I churn them out daily on demand and I was able to shred the original written evidence.

Vignette

In her hand she held a crumpled piece of paper. She folded it and unfolded it, absently; as if doodling with her fingers. It was something physical to occupy her while her brain coped with all she heard and saw.

She opened it again again and looked at it. “Well,” she said. “No I won’t read it!”

There was encouragement. “Come on. You know us,” said someone, gently.

“Nope. Nope. It’s not fit to read out. It’s no good. I can’t. I can’t read it.”

“Well shall I read it for you?” said somebody else.

“No. Nope. Nobody’s going to read it.

“She folded it again and then screwed it in her hands. The conversation drifted elsewhere. Somebody had something more important to say.

The ball of paper remained in her hand, soft with sweat from her palms.

And soon there was a vacancy in time. A gap waiting to be filled.

“Well alright then,” she said without any prompting. “Perhaps I will. Perhaps I’ll read it.”

She unfolded the paper from her hand. “ I have to warn you though. It’s . . . not very good.”

People made warm encouraging noises, careful of where to tread, lest overpowering encouragement should boost up too much expectation; yet fearing that not enough could result in her screwing it up again into a tiny crumpled ball.

“As I said. It’s not very good. It’s just something I wrote. Long time ago.”

They waited.

“It’s called . . . ”

[She did read it, it was OK. I don’t remember the content.]

This little vignette is a raw observation: I wrote it so as to remember the nuances. It shows why I understand the need for Writing Life® to be entirely confidential and by correspondence; and it was probably instrumental in formulating my determination to pursue the course as we know it.

© Bernie Ross 2006

Notes from I don’t know where - but rather useful anyway

In a good story –

• There must be something at stake.
• The process of getting it must be suspended.
• Read any good book for examples.
• Ask powerful questions.
• The writing should be the equivalent of a camera that also records sounds and atmosphere. (Does a camera have opinions? I think not!)
• Write it backwards – how can the clues slip out?

All is Not Lost

There were some little gems on the old message board and you might feel a few 'darlings' were lost forever when it closed, but not so. It's still available on http://www.writinglife.org.uk/studentsold/view.php - with the usual username and password - and if you'd like to retrieve anything from it you're welcome. You can publish them on here and add pictures - of yourselves, your homes or your pets or pet loves - if you like; all in the spirit of sharing. Want to know how to do it? Very easy, get in touch with Bern. If Trevor and Barbara can do it, so can you.
Bernie

Hindsight

Hindsight

The skin coloured patch over his left eye gave him a sinister look. He peered through his one clear eye, outlined by the black arched eyebrow. His gait uneven and awkward as he took a few steps forward, he walked with his arms outstretched to give himself balance. An old black and white baseball cap sat firmly on his shaven head. His white, short-sleeved shirt crumpled and damp with perspiration stuck to his back.
He supported himself, by gripping the roof of the car, as he opened the door to climb into the passenger seat. His legs abandoned the messages sent to them and he fell face forward into the car, his arms not quick enough to hold his weight. He struggled to compose himself and strained to push his body into a position where he could pull himself upright once again. His face wet with sweat, he rested for a moment.
He saw his mother leaving the glass-fronted building. Straining with effort he arranged his limbs into a sitting position. She looked happy as she approached the car, unaware of his recent fall. She smiled at him and seated herself, squeezed his arm and started the engine. She was delighted to be taking him home. They drove in silence for a while, awkward with each of their thoughts. A motorbike overtook them on the dual carriageway; its deep growl of acceleration gave him butterflies in his stomach. He looked, as did his mother at the figure on the bike as it disappeared into the distance. The rider was wearing a crash helmet, their thoughts remained unspoken. He knew she was thinking the same thoughts. If only he had worn his on that fateful day.

by Barbara A. Rope

Let's Start at the Beginning

And ask ourselves:

Have we got it wrong?

On a day like today all hot and sticky
Stuck at work not taking the mickey
Running wild beside the pool
Or feeling really cool
With a blonde on the side

Just now a child died
Having nowhere to hide
Her belly full of pain
So who shall gain
From our work in the sun

Bush rules the world
So we all need to hide
For what have we learnt
From years on our knees
Hoping God’s on our side.

You may gather that I cheated. This is a poem written last summer, but we do need to look at our world and wonder, just sometimes.

I'm Trevor, scribbler, who may appear from time to time.

Playground # 6

Welcome to the Sixth Edition of Playground.

Here is a picture of Barbara's locality. See her descriptions under the heading 'The Message Board'.

Some important information is here for you and I’m sorry there are fewer pictures than usual: I haven’t had time to go looking for them.

Bernie

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From: Community Safety Co-ordinator, Colchester Borough Council

"As part of reducing crime in Colchester I have had several emails from CBC colleagues and partner agencies relating to a credit card security check scam that is becoming increasingly prevalent over the last few weeks with more victims each day."

It applies to us all, everywhere:

CREDIT CARD SECURITY SCAM

This information is worth reading. By understanding how the VISA & MasterCard Telephone Credit Card Scam works, you'll be better prepared to protect yourself.

One of our employees was called on Wednesday from "VISA", and I was called on Thursday from "MasterCard". Note, the callers do not ask for your card number; they already have it. The scam works like this: Person calling says, "This is (name), and I'm calling from the Security and Fraud Department at VISA. My Badge number is 12460. Your card has been flagged for an unusual purchase pattern, and I'm calling to verify. This would be on your VISA card that was issued by (name of bank). Did you purchase an Anti-Telemarketing Device for £249.99 from a Marketing company based in (name of any town or city)?" When you say "No" the caller continues with, "Then we will be issuing a credit to your account.”

They go on, “This is a company we have been watching and the charges range from £150 to £249, just under the £250 purchase pattern that flags most cards. Before your next statement, the credit will be sent to (gives you your address), is that correct?" You say "yes". The caller continues - "I will be starting a Fraud investigation. If you have any questions, you should call the 0800 number listed on the back of your card and ask for Security. You will need to refer to this Control Number.” The caller then gives you a 6 digit number. "Do you need me to read it again?" Here's the IMPORTANT part on how the scam works. The caller then says, "I need to verify you are in possession of your card". He'll ask you to "turn your card over and look for some numbers". There are 7 numbers; the first 4 are part of your card number, the next 3 are the Security Numbers that verify you are the possessor of the card. These are the numbers you sometimes use to make Internet purchases to prove you have the card.

The caller will ask you to read the 3 numbers to him. After you tell the caller the 3 numbers, he'll say, "That is correct, I just needed to verify that the card has not been lost or stolen, and that you still have your card. Do you have any other questions?" After you say No, the caller then thanks you and states, "Don't hesitate to call back; if you do....", and hangs up. You actually say very little, and they never ask for or tell you the Card number. But after we were called on Wednesday, we called back within 20 minutes to ask a question. Are we glad we did! The REAL VISA Security Department told us it was a scam and in the last 15 minutes a new purchase of £249.99 was charged to our card. Long story made short - we made a real fraud report and closed the VISA account. VISA is reissuing us a new number. What the scammers want is the 3-digit PIN number on the back of the card. Don't give it to them.

Instead, tell them you'll call VISA or Master card directly for verification of their conversation. The real VISA told us that they will never ask for anything on the card as they already know the information since they issued the card! If you give the scammers your 3 Digit PIN you think you're receiving a credit. However, by the time you get your statement you'll see charges for purchases you didn't make, and by then it's almost to late and/or more difficult to actually file a fraud report. What makes this more remarkable is that on Thursday, I got a call from a "Jason Richardson of MasterCard" with a word-for-word repeat of the VISA scam. This time I didn't let him finish. I hung up! We filed a police report, as instructed by VISA. The police said they are taking several of these reports daily! They also urged us to tell everybody we know that this scam is happening.

Please pass this on to all your family and friends. By informing each other, we protect each other."

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LifeLines – February 2006

Ways To Keep Writing When You Haven’t Got Time

1) Writing a daily diary can be a bit much when there aren’t enough hours in the day to keep up with some of the essentials; and even a weekly diary entry gets pushed to the next week and the next . . . But ‘Goodbye January’, written like a letter to that month, is a good way of recording the key events and writing a few sentences about how you felt during the month. The season leaves its mark too, so that ‘Goodbye February’ will be different in character, expressing the subtle differences that time and growth bring to our lives. Each can be written in hindsight as the month drifts into the next. By the end of the year you’ll have twelve diary entries that were well worth recording.

2) Writing in hindsight is often ‘informed’ and prone to being bookish. By contrast it’s good to write pure observations, on the spot, rather like an artist sketches from life. Written observations make you feel like a writer (your pad on your knee in the restaurant or sitting on a bench in town . . .) and the resulting descriptions of people’s clothing and actions become characterisations you never knew you’d create.

3) Have you read a letter in a magazine or newspaper that made you want to answer back? Do it! It doesn’t matter about sending it, just write it. Writing is a tool of thought and you never know what thoughts might develop in the process of writing your mental response to something that’s in print.

4) When you finish reading a book or story, write a few sentences about it, keeping a note of its title, the author, the publisher and ISBN and/or library Dewey number. It’s worth keeping a notebook especially for these little write-ups so that when you want to refer to that book, subject or author again you’ll have it all in one place. You might even, some time, use it as a starting point for a book review.

5) An A6 spiral notebook lies flat and is small enough for any pocket. A stub of a pencil is more healthy than a cigarette lighter. Keep both the notebook and pencil with you at all times and use them. Remember: a single word, a phrase or a list can be expanded to incorporate so much more when your mind is free to roam. And there will be the time and space for it to do so, sooner or later.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

© Bernie Ross 2006

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In future, students will be able to add their own articles and stories to the Writing Life Playground, any time. All they need to do is get the private username and password from Bernie. You just paste the words into a box and there are icons to click on for special fonts, italics etc. Easy-peasy. Pictures can be added too. Here is your chance to take part in ‘publishing’ for real.

See below for an excerpt from the WL Message Board.

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DIGGERS

by Colm Keenan

The two men stopped their work for a cigarette break. The day was hot and humid, but they knew that the more work they got done, the more they would soon be in the shade. A multitude of infant voices could be heard over at the school out in the courtyard. A brood of hungry crow chicks squalled high above the church wall –their parents having returned with some of that highly nutritious regurgitated worm.

‘How many years are we at this now, Paddy?’ asked one of the diggers as he took a big puff out of his cigarette.

‘Let me see…I finished in Murphy’s in…must be twenty-two years, Tom.”

‘That’s a long time! Do you ever feel bad at what we get paid for, Paddy?’

‘Not at all. I just dig and dig and dig. Six feet down, and then I go home.’

‘But do you ever think of the people who are being laid to rest in the holes that we dig, Paddy?’

‘Now, Tom! What sort of a question is that from a good Catholic man such as yourself who has never missed Sunday Mass in nine years in this parish, since you went over to Scotland to visit your brother! Father Leavy would not be impressed with that statement. We are just burying the bodies. The souls have departed to the good place. If we didn’t bury them they’d stink up the area, and we’d get every sort of disease possible. Our job actually saves lives, Tom. If these bodies were not buried, many people would get very sick.’

‘I suppose when you put it that way, Paddy. However, if we are just burying the bodies, why does the Church have a big burial ceremony, if the soul has departed? And why will the family of the deceased probably get a big fancy marble headstone with gold coloured inscription? And also, why will the family and friends of the deceased come here many times throughout the year and kneel on their brittle knees upon the solid marble?’

‘So many questions, Tom! Maybe because we can’t see the deceased until we die: the Grave is the closest we can get to them. I’m not sure, but there’s the man to explain it all. How’s it going, Father? A hot one, isn’t it, Father?’

Father Leavy was just entering the graveyard, about twenty metres from them - the two diggers’ shoulders and heads were all that could be seen from level with the ground. Father Leavy approached the side of the grave and stood tall against the sky. He looked down at the men as he talked:

‘Gentlemen! Yes, Paddy, it is very hot today; but I see you are almost in the shade there. How’s Betty today, Tom?’

‘Oh she’s keeping well, Father. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.’

‘Do indeed! How long are you married now to that wonderful woman, Tom?’

‘Twenty two years now, Father,’ replied Tom respectfully.

‘How time passes. It feels like only yesterday when I was asking you your wedding vows. You were a young gossoon then,’ remarked the priest.

‘Father?’ Asked Paddy - who had been taking a few quiet whiffs of his cigarette while Tom and the priest were talking, ‘Tom was asking me some very clever theological questions just prior to your arrival. I do not understand, but I am sure Father that you could give him some answers.’

The priest turned his attention sharply to Tom.

‘Tom. What would you like to know?’

‘Ah, it’s nothing, Father,’ said Tom.

‘Go ahead and ask. For what good of a priest would I be if I could not help my parishioners?’

‘Well eh….Paddy is exaggerating….I-I-I was just wondering what will we do when this graveyard fills up here. W-w-where would we bury the rest of the people or b-b-bodies if you would prefer?’ stammered a nervous Tom.

‘I am sure that the Church could buy some land from Mr. Maguire down the road there; and after that I would not worry, Tom: we will be long gone by then. A great job is being done here, Gentlemen. Would ye like a sup of whiskey?’

‘We would indeed,’ said Paddy bluntly.

The priest opened up his coat, which had been folded neatly over his left arm. With his right arm he took out a small bottle from the inside coat pocket. It was full except for one or two mouthfuls. He handed it down to Paddy who took a big mouthful and gasped in a gratified tone. Paddy then passed it to Tom who took a few drops of a mouthful, and passed it back up to the priest.

‘Mighty stuff you have there, Father,’ said Paddy.

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Tom politely.

The priest spoke: It’s a terrible shame about Mrs. Boyle, men. A good woman she was; a fine example to the parish. Nine children, and every one of them never got into any big trouble; all grown up now of course.

‘I was talking to Pat Kavanagh at the shop earlier, Father, and he said that she fought the cancer to the end,’ remarked Tom.

Aye indeed; a good woman was Mrs. Boyle,’ said Paddy.

The priest kicked some soil off his polished shoes, stretched up his arms, and said: ‘Well Gentlemen. I shall be off. Goodbye, Paddy. Goodbye, Tom – tell Betty I said that I’ll be down for some of that delightful stew she makes some time soon.’

Bye, Father,’ said Paddy.

I will, Father. Goodbye.’

The priest turned and walked to the entrance of the graveyard. He turned around and said: ‘Tom, if you have ever have any questions regarding your Faith, I’m always here. The shepherd must tend to his beloved sheep.’

‘Oh, I will of course, Father. See you soon,’ replied Tom.

The priest was gone. The school kids must have foiled back into the school. All that could be heard were the crow chicks high above squalling for food from their parents, and a lawnmower somewhere off in the distance.

The diggers dropped their cigarette butts on the ground and resumed digging.

‘I’ll get you back for that one, Paddy. That was a sly one!’

Paddy started to laugh which was very rare for such a serious man. Tom was not used to Paddy laughing so heartily – usually Paddy would only expose a snigger. Whatever it was, Tom could not help but join him in it.

The lawnmower in the distance hit a stone and cut out. The temporarily orphaned chicks were silent.

All that could be heard were two old men laughing. They could have been digging their own graves - it would not have mattered. Perhaps they were laughing at the irony of their situation: two grave bodies becoming draped in CLAY.


© Colm Keenan 2006

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The Message Board

"Welcome to the message board. Please say what you like, when you like. Questions, rants, comments and discussions - say what you jolly well want to say."

Well we jolly well would if we could find the time and if we could jolly well make the thing work. Here is an excerpt from the latest. You have to start at the bottom and work upwards to see how the conversation develops.

From Bernie:

Alex - and everyone - the problems we have with actually using the thing as well as finding timeto do so is evident with the last few posts. And there are many 'failed attempts' that I'm aware of as well. Though it's early days with opening it up to passers-by there's been no rush of enthusiasm.

When I get to speak to Julian (my web host who seems elusive) I might get him to close it down completely and find another way for students to 'meet'. So this is just a little warning . . . You might like to take note of email addresses or highlight and copy bits of text from anywhere. The pages go back a few years, closest being 1,2,3.

Rest assured it won't be closed in anger but in the interests of progress and an easier life for all.

From Alex:

So good, I did it twice!

From Alex:

Bernie, I think opening up the message board is a good idea. It needs some spice. The more the merrier and a whole host of other cliches that translate as - LET'S TRY TO MAKE LIFE INTERESTING.

From Alex:

Bernie, I think opening up the message board is a good idea. It needs some spice. The more the merrier and a whole host of other cliches that translate as - LET'S TRY TO MAKE LIFE INTERESTING.

From Bernie:

Alex, blushing is my natural colour. :-)
Erotic is what a woman of 53 needs.

From Alex:

Sorry for being so tardy. I'm busy writing stuff for the course as well as our local writers group. Barbara, the weather in Scotland is freezing. But it's freezing in a way that reminds me why I probably could never live permanently in a warmer climate. Everything is glazed by a thick, white frost. Every tree is jewelled, stark, skeletal. The pavements glisten and every gate is festooned with a matrix of spiders webs. Global warming is going to rob us of so much! Still, Spain is a place I enjoy visiting Barbara and I can well understand the attraction. Not too many evenings up here, even in summer, when you can sit outside with a glass of wine and a good book. I have been with writinglife for about six months. I enjoy writing to a deadline. The course has taught me to be disciplined and to think of myself as a writer. I'm glad I'm doing it! Good to hear your writing Barbara. Good luck with it. Perhaps I will see some of your stuff in the 'new writing'slot before long. What kind of reading do you do? Jean. Read your piece. Is it part of a longer piece? It was fine but perhaps it requires pepping up. Perhaps a little less sentimental. Expand on it. See what happens to Tommy in your imagination. Bernie, next assignment almost ready. It's rather erotic. I hope you don't blush easily.

From Ivy:

Hi Barbara. Thanks for the update on the Spanish weather. The weather here is brilliant today. Sun streaming in through the window of my writing room which faces south east. The overnight frost has melted and there is no wind. We were saying only yesterday how little rain we have had in the last few months. Of course, this part of the country (East Anglia) is the driest part of the U.K. The average rainfall is very low and we are frequently threatened with hose pipe bans. We are trying gradually to change our back garden to one with plants which enjoy near drought conditions. A few miles away is the famous gardens owned and run by Beth Chatto. She planted a Mediterranean garden some years ago. It has never been artificially watered and is thriving.

From Barbara:

The rain in Spain doesn't always fall on the plain, in fact it's pouring down. We shouldn't complain because we need the water. We have an official drought at the moment, but watching the stair-rods come down outside it makes me think I'm back in England. Never mind soon it will be Spring and with the help of this water the hills,fields and mountains will be full of flowers, blossom and wildlife. The cats, Cleo and Jadna they don't like the rain. They sit and watch it through the windows, get bored and decide to create havoc around the house, especially if they get into my writing room. Who ever said animals were dumb knew nothing about their behaviour. So come on you guys out there let me know what the weather is like in your part of the world and what pets you have or have not. It would be nice to use this chat room if somebody would CHAT.

LifeLines - January 2006

Baggage Matters

by Bernie Ross

Some ‘Baggage’ definitions:-
Impedimenta; Superfluous or burdensome practices, regulations, ideas, or traits.

Remember or imagine this scenario: you meet someone who’s potentially ‘special’. Something clicks, passion flares, you don’t know why; it feels like a chemical or spiritual magnetism. Your intrigue is heightened; you can barely wait for your next date. It feels so special you hardly dare to imagine everything is as perfect as it feels. (Perhaps you’re dating someone who’s wanted for murder?)

You get on so well that you’re soon swapping histories. “Murder, good heavens no! Married with kids.” Your heart sinks, imagination paints an unhappy future . . . The embittered spouse will be interfering from day one; there’ll be a premium on time, money, love to go around . . .

“But we’re divorced and we have a good arrangement with the children.” Already your heart is singing again. Love is in the air and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You even want to meet the kids.

Writing a story is like that, speeded up. There’s attraction. There are hurdles. The plot thickens, as they say. Your characters’ baggage dictates the outcome if only because it influences where they want to go. Think of Batman: he became a bat because his parents were murdered and the bat could see in the dark. Instant sympathy.

If your characters in fiction share similar baggage to that of your readers in reality then there’s a good chance the book or short story will go down well. It will ‘hit a warm spot’ with its readers.

Flashbacks, in the popular recent TV series ‘Lost’, go into pre-plane-crash incidents to show us the historical relevance of conflicts and hang-ups that scourge the characters in their fight for survival. Like a screenwriter you should know it and be able to show it in flashback, but don’t think you have to tell it to make sure your reader understands. There’s a difference.

Baggage is relevant in relationships between the writer, his characters and the reader, because it’s through knowing the baggage - emotional history and issues they face – that the writer can give accurate descriptions using similes and metaphors that are specific and spot on.

© Bernie Ross 2005

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Short Editorial
In a constant plight to meet the needs of students, writers (including myself) and writing life students, it’s evident to me that the Message Board doesn’t particularly serve much purpose. Perhaps WL students don’t need a private board to themselves because they know they can ask me and get a quicker reply. Before abandoning the facility altogether I’m planning to open it up to ‘anyone’. Not just for the sake of it but with a particular aim in mind. I won’t go into it now but I wanted to tell you privately first before announcing anything on the mailing list that goes to those who’ve shown interest in the WL site but not necessarily paid for the course. Your thoughts about this ‘opening up’ are welcome . . . to me or on the message board!

Bernie

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The Day the Sea Spilt Over the Land

by Theresa Wood

The day the sea spilt over the land
Beth’s children were playing in the sand.
She saw the wave and began to run
trying to gather them into her arms.
And Po the ice-cream maker’s stall
with sweets and candy and nuts to sell
crumpled as if it was made of sand,
the day the sea spilt over the land.

The day the sea spilt over the land,
a wedding in the church was planned.
Sumi had put on her wedding gown
and all the guests were in town.
The tables were laid out in the sun,
families laughing and having fun
‘til the huge wave caught them unawares
and dragged them out to distant shores.

The day the sea spilt over the land
dawned fine and sunny with little wind.
Women at home were beginning their chores
with their children playing out of doors.
Many of their fathers were fishermen
already bringing the first catch in
when the mountain of water stopped the sun
and took their lives, nearly all of them.

The day the sea spilt over the land
was the day no-one ever could imagine.
Like a watercolour left out in a storm
by the end of the day all the picture was gone.
Like a sandcastle crumbling into the waves
thousands upon thousands lost their lives.
We hold our breath now in shock and wonder
for as simply as a cobweb, we are torn asunder.

© Theresa Wood 2005

Theresa lives in a village outside Rugby and has done one Writing Life assignment as well as having written about 5 stories or more for women’s magazines. She was published in one about 30 years ago and is determined to recapture that magic touch – if only she could put her finger on what it is! Meanwhile she’s content to write for the local parish magazine ‘Three Churches News’ in which this poem first appeared.
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BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE PERCEIVER!

by Lynda E. Blake

I’ve long had an interest in psychology and came across something the other day that I’d like to share.

It might sound simple, but I was reminded of the principle that our thoughts affect everything we do – and more importantly how we do it, and the results we achieve…

Basically, our BELIEFS affect our EXPECTATIONS, which in turn affect our ATTITUDES.

Our beliefs come from many sources, firstly from our parents and peers and the social groups with which we mingle, or from the views we see expressed in the media. But more importantly, these beliefs don’t just ‘exist’, they affect the way we view ourselves and everything and everyone around us. Moulding our expectations…

So, while we’re often unaware of it, no matter what we do, see, hear or experience, we act as if it’s happening through a filter. Almost a prism that colours how it will turn out… In other words we see things according to our attitudes.

“But even optimists can be pessimistic sometimes,” you might say. And true, of course they can, but just by being aware of the link between our beliefs, expectations and attitudes we can be aware of what is happening and maybe take the first step towards changing things we don’t like. Perhaps then we can enjoy more fulfilment, less stress, and a better quality of life? Think about it! And above all, question, question, question!

© Lynda E. Blake 2005

Lynda’s portrait appears under her story 'Changing Faces' in November’s Playground ‘Fireworks and Faces’.

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