Suzanne Bowditch's Blog, page 31

Short Story: Princess Molly

My sister in law is a gifted artist. She is also a cat lover, having 4 cats who share her cottage in England with her husband Alan, a retired doctor (I say share here, because the house is very much their home as well). Molly is a gorgeous Bengal cat with superb markings that remind me of a Royal cat, one who should be lounging around, being hand fed luscious tidbits, and wearing a sweet bejewelled crown on her head.

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There you have it …Princess Molly is born.

Inspired by Molly, I have started to write short stories, aimed at children. I hope to have them illustrated in the future, but in the meantime I’d love to share my latest story with you.

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Princess Molly and the new toy.

Princess Molly sat in her favourite corner of the garden, washing her paws. There was barely a rustle from the house. Missy was in her studio, busily painting.

Suddenly, the large rhododendron bush next to Missy’s studio rustled, and a face appeared from its depths. Jack, the large tom cat from next door, blinked in the sunlight. His large amber eyes shone in the deep green leaves of the bush. He gave a long yawn, and stretched his paws.

Princess Molly liked to avoid Jack. Her princess ways were used to someone a bit more refined, not like Jack. She turned her green eyes away, hoping that he would take the hint, and jump back over his wall.

But he didn’t. In fact, he strolled right over to Princess Molly.

‘What you up to, Molls?’ he rasped, in that uncouth, pussycat way. ‘Do you want to check out the bins in the alleyway?’

Princess Molly looked disgusted. She stood up on her haunches, and stalked back towards the house.

‘Wait up Molls; I know you’re a princess, I was only teasing. Come and see what ‘s in my garden.’

Princess Molly stopped, tail in the air. She turned around, intrigued.

‘Okay,’ she replied. Her afternoon snacks could wait a little longer.

*

Moments later she was following Jack over the stone wall into next door’s garden. She had only visited Jack’s garden a few times, preferring her own, more refined one. But curiosity go the better of her. What did Jack have in here that was so special?

Jack’s garden was bigger than hers. It had a well cut lawn in its centre, and a cut out of dirt in the middle. Colourful flowers swayed in the breeze; reds, yellows and pinks. It was a feast for the eyes, and perfect for pussycats. She yawned in annoyance, suddenly bored. Hadn’t she seen this before? She plonked herself down onto the lawn, and started to lick that unruly patch of fur on her tail.

‘Over here, Princess Molly!’ Molly looked up, startled (it was a particularly satisfying scratch). Where had that voice come from? She looked around, and spotted a tail peeking out from a small door at the end of the garden. She had not noticed that part before. She stalked over, paws avoiding the course grass. What was the mystery?

The door had a gap at the bottom. Princess Molly poked her head through the gap, pushing against the door with her clean white paws.

Beyond the gate she stopped. Jack and the voice (she was still not sure whose it was) were on top of a huge colourful thing. As she watched, Jack slid down a bright blue slide, into a pit of sand. He shook his head free of the sand on his whiskers, and miaowed. The other cat (for that’s whose voice she heard) clung onto a coiled piece of rope, next to the slide. The cat, a very furry tabby, scratched and flicked its tail, purring contentedly.

‘Look what Abigail bought me – my own playground!’ cried Jack, climbing up the slide the wrong way.

Princess Molly forgot that she was a royal, very important and refined cat. She purred, and threw herself onto the slide, behind Jack.

*

Suzanne Bowditch, 2016

Another look at Brazil’s amazing wetlands—the Pantanal

Wonderful post and a fitting theme for the Olympics in Rio[image error]

Where to next?

Trying to get a lizard’s eye view of the Olympics? Look hard, it’s 2600 kilometres to the east

Hey, Mr Caiman, you’re looking the wrong direction

All eyes are on Rio de Janeiro for the coming weeks, and rightly so with the Olympics 2016 currently underway.

One of our daughters is there for work, on the periphery of the Games. I’m pretty sure she’ll be run ragged over the next little while, and have little chance to see many events or Rio itself. She didn’t get to see the opening ceremony.

Two hawks watching over their domain

Jabirus or ibises (I think) racing to the Olympics. You’re going the wrong way

Fortunately she has a few extra days in Brazil after the Games end. To help her decide how to spend them, I’m going to add a few blog posts from our two recent trips to that vast and amazing…

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Book Review: The Dry by Jane Harper

This book has been on my TBR list ever since I heard how good it was. It was mentioned as a ‘good read’ on The First Tuesday Book Club hosted by Jennifer Byrne a few weeks back. Usually, I don’t  like to read what they’ve recommended as I find the show a tad too arty, but the cover on this book appealed to me.

Boy, I am so glad that I found it (on offer, I must say) at my local K Mart – and BOUGHT it!. Its my best read so far this year (to get the perspective on that statement; I have read over 50 books so far for my Book Challenge 2016 on Goodreads).

It is beautifully written, amazing, I loved the plot, the characters, the setting, the mood of the book. You can almost feel the hot Australian sun burning on your back as you read it – its that GOOD! Each page makes you want more; each character is a potential suspect; you will not guess until the end who is the villain.

I read in one weekend; could not put it down….

The Dry – Jane Harper

Who killed the Hadler family?

Aaron Falk arrives in his hometown of Kiewarra, rural Victoria, for the funeral of an old school friend. Now living and working as a cop in Melbourne, he left Kiewarra under a mask of suspicion some twenty years ago, when his school girlfriend Ellie Deacon was found dead in the bottom of the river, her pockets filled with pebbles.

Now he returns for the funeral of Luke Hadler, a farmer, who has killed his wife and young son and set the shotgun onto himself. The river where Ellie was found is now a dry river bed, a result of the drought that has inflicted the area for the last few years, causing farmers to shoot starving cattle, and despair of the rains returning.

Falk just wants to pay his respects, and leave. He counts down the hours until his has to go, but then finds himself investigating the deaths with the local copper. In the process, he becomes untangled into the past and the ghosts that lay there, waiting to reappear.

So Luke is cast as a despairing, depressive farmer who has lost hope and killed his family as a result, or so the local town cops believe. Its a clear cut and dried case, but is it?

An atmospheric, mesmerizing thriller, that will leave you guessing until the end!

A fabulous read –  5/5.

 

 

3 Day Quote Challenge – Day 3

Lovely thoughts great post[image error]

Watching the Daisies

Day 3 of my 3 day 3 quote challenge includes yet more flowers from my garden and more of my favourite quotations.

Thank you once again to those who nominated me:

Autumn of In The Autumn of My Life  and

M of The Girl That Dreams Awake

Please check out their inspiring blogs.

Once again, I am not nominating anyone to continue the challenge but if you feel inspired to do so that would be great.

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12th August 1989

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Today is my wedding anniversary. My hubby and I took our vows in 1989, so that would be 27 years go today. Along the way we have acquired one cat (now deceased), one dog (very much alive) and two children, a boy and a girl that my mother calls my ‘pigeon pair.

I have much to be grateful for; chocolate, books, sunshine, laughter, family.

So I scrolled through my old posts, and stumbled across a ’12 Things I am Grateful For’ Post, which I think is very fitting for today.

My family. We moved to the other side of the world exactly 10 years ago last weekend; me, my hubby and my two children. The move has made us stronger as a family unit and I’m forever grateful to have them.
My dog. My little terrier Billy is a rascal, but he is also my writing companion and my support.
My computer. Has enabled me to find my creativity.
Writing. I love to write. I am never happier than when I am in front of my computer, my dog on the sofa next to me, creating characters, places and settings.
My love of books. I have read since I was young, and feel privileged every time I find a new author or a gem of a book.I’m currently reading a Tracy Chevalier book, and loving it.
Baking. I love to bake with my daughter. We set out most weekends to look through recipes and spend that precious family time together.
The internet. I would be lost without my friend Google, as he is used so much in research. What was life like before the internet? I shudder to think.
My car. Allows me to travel around the beautiful Gold Coast, and search for inspiration.
Dining out. I love to discover new restaurants. As a family we eat out quite a bit; food helps us to connect and bond.
The area I live in. Also, the world and all the gorgeous places in it. We should all be grateful to live on this glorious planet.
My parents. For giving me life and good advice.
Waking up each morning in a warm bed, content and looking forward to a new day.

Deirdra

Beachfront

This short story is written in response to an assignment that I had to create on the University of Iowa’s creative writing course, a free course that is running for 6 weeks. We are studying the works of American poet and war correspondent Walt Whitman, who created beautiful poetry that dealt with the mass mechanised deaths of the soldiers in the American Civil War.
I chose to enrol on the course as part of my research methods for the last book in my saga A Celtic Trilogy, which leads up the WW1. The themes of the course are Death, Destruction, Imagery of War and Tragedy.
The image is of my hometown beach in Wales, not a war zone by any means, but I love the sweeping force of the clouds in the sky, and the moody feel of the beach.
 Deirdra

Deirdra pulled the kitchen drawer open, pushing aside the candles and matches to grab at the lead pushed into the back recesses. Another Monday morning and it was her turn to take the dog out ….again. She glanced at the sky through the French windows. Grey clouds scurried past, with the hint of a blue sky in the corner of the window frame. A splatter of rain decided to fall at that moment and she groaned as her clean windows became smudged. Pulling at a roll of kitchen paper she wiped at a dirty patch where Bobby had rubbed his pink Labrador nose and left paw prints on the tiles. A clattering of paws on her tiles pronounced the arrival of the culprit – straight out of Amber’s room.

‘Trying to get her up, boy? She will sleep ’til noon, no doubt.’ Deirdra clipped the lead to the dog’s collar and walked past the room on her right. The door was ajar, and she could see a mound of underwear on the floor by the door. Peeping round the door, a mound in the centre of a flowered bedspread and a gentle snoring sound confirmed what she already knew. She closed the door and headed down the hallway, past the sounds of snoring coming from the door to the left.

Nick’s face flashed before her eyes as she took her coat off the coat hook and wrapped the pale blue duffel around her, doing up the toggles as she brushed a piece of hair away from her eyes. The way he smiled, the way his hair flopped over his face, the warm hugs and smiles were still clear in her mind.She could almost smell the lemony aftershave he used to wear.

She tried not to think about the mood swings, tucking them away in her mind.They had been happy once, hadn’t they?

The reflection in the hallway mirror stared back at her – a middle aged woman, once the life and soul of any college party, now with dark circles under her eyes. Hair that once fell soft and shiny past her shoulders, styled in the latest fashion, was now held back by a pink hair-tie that she’d found in Amber’s bedroom – a miraculous occurrence in itself.

Outside, the gate clanged shut behind her as she made her way across the road, barely looking out for traffic. There was no need to, as the boarded up doorways and windows confirmed.No one came down this street any more, certainly not any cars, that’s for sure.

She walked briskly, avoiding the potholes in the pavement, and the empty coke cans dumped into the gutter, mixed with the remains of crisp packets and bottles of beer. A mound of rotting newspapers were dumped up ahead, just outside the corner shop, now closed. Pity nobody thought to tell the delivery man.The ropes that held the bundle had been neatly cut with a knife, and the top layers blew in the breeze. She caught her breath anxiously and looked around. A sheet of newspaper blew towards her and she glanced at the back page headlines.

Bomb blast kills 2 soldiers; 32 civilians.

Bobby pulled on his lead, so suddenly that she fell against the barbed wire fence. Behind it, the grass was nearly a foot high, overgrown and desolate. A rabbit ran through the grass then stopped suddenly, nose twitching, ears up in the air. Bobby barked frantically, now pulling furiously. A sudden cry alerted her, and she pushed at the barbed wire, squeezing into the gap it made. Walking through the overgrown weeds and rusted barbed wires she stopped in front of a familiar sight. Once a hub of activity, the white washed building was now crumbling and decayed. Graffiti was now a feature of the walls, where once there’d been a grand house, the finest in the area. Now it stood like an ancient monument, macabre in its former glory.

She pushed onward, searching for the sound. It came again, nearer this time. Bobby sniffed around her, his tail in the air, his body already covered in burrs.

‘There there,’ she soothed, spotting the dog crouched in the corner of the courtyard. His face was in shadows under a cap and his arms were wrapped around his bony knees, exposed in dirty shorts. She crouched down in front of him.’Come with me, you won’t be harmed. I know of a safe house.’

His eyes were huge, luminous. From this angle she could see the backyard of the house. She straightened holding the boy in her arms. She shuddered, ghosts of the past seeping through to her soul.

Up ahead, the rubble that was once the house sat on an overgrown lawn. The centre of the roof had been bombed. Weeds had already crept through the holes in the walls where there had been windows, once, a long time ago.

She could barely remember at time before the Destruction.

Holding the boy in her arms, she picked her way back  the through the weeds, carefully avoiding the mounds in the earth.

Just one step and it was all over.

Bobby stayed by her side, and for that she was grateful. The fence seemed further away, or the load too heavy.

Weeks, months, years, melded into one until she barely remembered life before Destruction.

The sign on the fence had fallen, but the words were etched in her mind, had been forever.

Trespassers prohibited, August 2150.

She barely remembered a time before Destruction.

*

 

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Roberta Pimentel

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Writing Quotes — Mark Twain — Anna Dobritt — Author

via Writing Quotes — Mark Twain — Anna Dobritt — Author

Alice’s Secret A Celtic Trilogy

Alice’s Secret A Celtic Trilogy

 

 

Alice’s Secret A Celtic Trilogy

My second book, Alice’s Secret in the saga A Celtic Trilogy is now available as a kindle (free on Amazon UK ) and as a kindle.

It tells the story of the next generation of the same family. My first book in the saga, Elen, tells of a young Welsh woman who is wrongly convicted of murder and sent to Van Dieman’s Land along with her young daughter Alice.. The year is 1837.

Alice’s Secret is a follow on, and tells of Alice and Tommy Jameson who run a sheep farm in Tasmania. Heartbreak and family trauma ensue when their eldest daughter goes missing, which tears the family apart.https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/BO117KNFME

Book Review : The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry – Rachel Joyce

Sometimes, a book comes along that makes you feel so content with the world, so hopeful that everything will be ‘just right.’ This is one of these times that a book has made me feel warm and satisfied with my lot. A poignant touching tale that will leave you feeling moved, and hopeful of the world. That doesn’t happen very often….

Harold Fry is lonely. A retired brewery salesman, he lives with his wife in a seaside town of Kingsbridge, England. His life is the same day after day whilst his wife cleans around him. Until one day, a letter drops through his mail box that will change his life. So started his journey to visit a dying friend in hospital, a friend that he hasn’t heard from in 20 years. What starts as a walk to the post box at the end of his street ends up as being a pilgrimage to the other end of the country, to Berwick -upon – Tweed. On the way, he meets a mixture of people from all walks of life; a single father of two, a man in a gorilla suit, a pack of cycling mothers and a stray dog.

It is a lovely tale, told in a calm and uplifting manner that will leave you loving the main character of Harold, and his quest for inner happiness. “A magical, moving and uplifting tale about a man’s journey across Britain and into his own heart.” Deborah Moggach

5/5