Louise Cole's Blog, page 2
September 3, 2017
Kindle Monthly Deal!
Amazon and Kindle Press have joined forces to put a bundle of KP books on Kindle Monthly Deal! The Devil's Poetry is just £1 in the UK and $1.99 in the US so if you want a copy now's the time to buy it.
But it's not just TDP. Check out some of my KP stablemates who may well be in this promotion too - Christine Whitehead, Anne Carol, Rita Stradling, Steve Hawk, LG O'Connor, Jacqui Ward... genres and writers for every taste.
I like being able to tell people about cheap books because, yes, we writers make less money and when the bills come in, that can hurt. But the world's a better place when people read lots. And ultimately that's more important.
Wishing you peace, love and books...
Lx
But it's not just TDP. Check out some of my KP stablemates who may well be in this promotion too - Christine Whitehead, Anne Carol, Rita Stradling, Steve Hawk, LG O'Connor, Jacqui Ward... genres and writers for every taste.
I like being able to tell people about cheap books because, yes, we writers make less money and when the bills come in, that can hurt. But the world's a better place when people read lots. And ultimately that's more important.
Wishing you peace, love and books...
Lx
July 6, 2017
The Devil's Poetry 99 cents 5-11 July
Hi guys
Just to let you know The Devil's Poetry and a bunch of other Kindle Press books are available for just 99 cents until July 11. Don't miss this chance to stock up your Kindle!
Happy reading!
https://www.amazon.com/Devils-Poetry-...
Louise
Just to let you know The Devil's Poetry and a bunch of other Kindle Press books are available for just 99 cents until July 11. Don't miss this chance to stock up your Kindle!
Happy reading!
https://www.amazon.com/Devils-Poetry-...
Louise
June 4, 2017
Words of peace and love
My heart is breaking for Manchester and London
Like most of us I feel helpless in the face of reckless hate. But I'm a writer and this is all I can do. So this post isn't about pushing my books or talking about writing - it's just a true story about how a Muslim stranger put aside his own grief to help my dying aunt. A small act of kindness which has always stayed with me and which reminds me that what we share in love, grief, and compassion is greater than any hate. And that sometimes an act of kindness is the best cure for feeling helpless. I offer it to you, as why I love my multicultural country, our cities, our people... and why hate will never win.
Sustenance
Only her smile was the same and that was infrequent. The wide smile that stretched from cheekbone to cheekbone, as though it were hooked over some memory of life, of personality. I ached to draw her back, to somehow restore the woman I loved with nothing but the force of my will. It made my stomach muscles clench with effort, even as I relaxed my face and banished the tears. They were no use to her now.
“You know what I would love?” she asked. “One of the pears from that tree.”
Her gaze took us out of the latticed window, flying down across the street to the big Georgian house on the far side. The house itself was crippled, its bowing walls propped up with scaffolding and acrows but the pear tree was laden. Old but sinewy strong. Pale yellow lobes hung limp under the green leaves.
“I watch that tree every day,” she said. “And I think about how it would taste. They’ll be tart, pet, but it’s nothing time won’t sweeten.”
She sighed and watched the tree in silence. The ache in my belly grew worse. Would this be the last time? Would this be the time I had to say goodbye?
“I’ll get you some pears,” I said. “If you want. I’m sure they won’t mind.” I realised suddenly how lucky the heroes of myths and fairy tales were to have a quest; the golden apple, the last rose of winter. So much easier than helplessness.
She smiled.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I ran downstairs and scrambled through a kitchen cupboard for a wide plastic mixing bowl.
“What are you doing in there? You’ll be making a mess for me, that’s what you’re doing.” My uncle heaved the cupboard door shut, fussing and straightening his tea towels.
“I’m going over to get her pears.”
“You can’t do that,” he snapped. “You can’t go bothering people.”
“They won’t mind.” I sprang to the front door.
“Come back, pet. Come back now.” He trembled. “You can’t be asking people for what they can’t give.”
I paused and took his hand. “It’s only pears, Uncle. It’s not important.”
“But what if they aren’t in?”
“Then what they don’t know won’t hurt them. It won’t be the first time someone has scrumped fruit from a laden tree.”
He limped to the door after me, his heavy frame and bad hip making him slow in my wake. “You’ll bring the law down on us, you will. Stupid woman, why did she have to ask for pears? There are things you just can’t have.”
His voice followed me out onto the road, crying of loss, and unanswered prayers.
I stepped across the road and entered the big, rambling garden. No one answered when I rang at the doorbell and rapped the dark wood with my fist. The pear tree was right beside the gate, but the branches were too high for me to reach. Even if I climbed the wall I didn’t think I could balance and pull down the fruit into my bowl.
Stymied, I slumped down in the drive, half-crouching against the iron gate. I couldn’t go back without the fruit. I knew she wouldn’t mind but I couldn’t disappoint her. If I didn’t fetch it, no one would, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her last wish going unfilled. So I sat there, stupidly, stubbornly clinging to the dream of fulfilling a dream. Of being useful. One last time.
And then a car pulled in. I leapt up and the car braked hard, the driver startled by this jack-in-the-box visitor in their own yard. I surged forward and the passenger wound the window down to meet me. A Muslim lady, hair caught in a scarf and her two daughters in the back seat, her husband behind the wheel.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, my aunt lives over the road and she is very sick. She wondered if she could have some of your pears.”
Her husband nodded. “Let me put the car away and I’ll get some for you,” he said.
Ten minutes later he re-emerged, dragging a wheelie bin behind him. I grabbed the side, fighting its inclination to tip as he climbed on top to reach up into the branches.
“They are for your aunt?” he asked.
I nodded. “She lives in that house,” I pointed.
“Yes,” he said, dropping the first of the fruit into my bowl. “I think I have seen her.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
He grabbed a branch and dug his strong fingers into the fold of leaves, producing fruit like a magician with a rabbit. “We’ve just come back from the hospital,” he said. “My brother was hit by a bus. His spleen is ruptured.” He snapped the branch back and grabbed another.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you now. Please. Come down.”
He gave me a sudden smile. “Your aunt. She is dying?”
“Yes. Soon I think.”
He nodded slowly, hanging from the branch as though the tree needed to share his weight. “Maybe my brother too. They don’t know. But,” he said producing another pear for the bowl, “I cannot help my brother. But I can do this for your aunt.”
The bowl was full now, almost a perfect globe brimming with green fruit.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll pray for your brother.”
He jumped down from the bin. “And I’ll pray for your aunt.”
I smiled through tears and carried my precious pears back to the house, noting the little green flies that swarmed on them and the hard lime of their skins.
She put one fruit to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Ah they’re lovely. We shall let them ripen on a windowsill and I’ll take them to the hospice on Thursday,” she said. Somehow I had known she would never eat one.
My uncle fretted. “And what am I supposed to do with all these?” he asked.
“Take them to the hospice?” I suggested.
“You should never have brought them. You should never have asked. There are more important things to ask for and you can’t have everything.”
“I know,” I said, sliding my arms around him as he tipped the pears into a new bowl. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “It was never about the fruit. She knows that.”
I don’t remember saying goodbye. That was her gift to me. I remember the hard green fruit and that all bitterness turns to sweetness in the end.
Peace and love
Louise x
Like most of us I feel helpless in the face of reckless hate. But I'm a writer and this is all I can do. So this post isn't about pushing my books or talking about writing - it's just a true story about how a Muslim stranger put aside his own grief to help my dying aunt. A small act of kindness which has always stayed with me and which reminds me that what we share in love, grief, and compassion is greater than any hate. And that sometimes an act of kindness is the best cure for feeling helpless. I offer it to you, as why I love my multicultural country, our cities, our people... and why hate will never win.
Sustenance
Only her smile was the same and that was infrequent. The wide smile that stretched from cheekbone to cheekbone, as though it were hooked over some memory of life, of personality. I ached to draw her back, to somehow restore the woman I loved with nothing but the force of my will. It made my stomach muscles clench with effort, even as I relaxed my face and banished the tears. They were no use to her now.
“You know what I would love?” she asked. “One of the pears from that tree.”
Her gaze took us out of the latticed window, flying down across the street to the big Georgian house on the far side. The house itself was crippled, its bowing walls propped up with scaffolding and acrows but the pear tree was laden. Old but sinewy strong. Pale yellow lobes hung limp under the green leaves.
“I watch that tree every day,” she said. “And I think about how it would taste. They’ll be tart, pet, but it’s nothing time won’t sweeten.”
She sighed and watched the tree in silence. The ache in my belly grew worse. Would this be the last time? Would this be the time I had to say goodbye?
“I’ll get you some pears,” I said. “If you want. I’m sure they won’t mind.” I realised suddenly how lucky the heroes of myths and fairy tales were to have a quest; the golden apple, the last rose of winter. So much easier than helplessness.
She smiled.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I ran downstairs and scrambled through a kitchen cupboard for a wide plastic mixing bowl.
“What are you doing in there? You’ll be making a mess for me, that’s what you’re doing.” My uncle heaved the cupboard door shut, fussing and straightening his tea towels.
“I’m going over to get her pears.”
“You can’t do that,” he snapped. “You can’t go bothering people.”
“They won’t mind.” I sprang to the front door.
“Come back, pet. Come back now.” He trembled. “You can’t be asking people for what they can’t give.”
I paused and took his hand. “It’s only pears, Uncle. It’s not important.”
“But what if they aren’t in?”
“Then what they don’t know won’t hurt them. It won’t be the first time someone has scrumped fruit from a laden tree.”
He limped to the door after me, his heavy frame and bad hip making him slow in my wake. “You’ll bring the law down on us, you will. Stupid woman, why did she have to ask for pears? There are things you just can’t have.”
His voice followed me out onto the road, crying of loss, and unanswered prayers.
I stepped across the road and entered the big, rambling garden. No one answered when I rang at the doorbell and rapped the dark wood with my fist. The pear tree was right beside the gate, but the branches were too high for me to reach. Even if I climbed the wall I didn’t think I could balance and pull down the fruit into my bowl.
Stymied, I slumped down in the drive, half-crouching against the iron gate. I couldn’t go back without the fruit. I knew she wouldn’t mind but I couldn’t disappoint her. If I didn’t fetch it, no one would, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her last wish going unfilled. So I sat there, stupidly, stubbornly clinging to the dream of fulfilling a dream. Of being useful. One last time.
And then a car pulled in. I leapt up and the car braked hard, the driver startled by this jack-in-the-box visitor in their own yard. I surged forward and the passenger wound the window down to meet me. A Muslim lady, hair caught in a scarf and her two daughters in the back seat, her husband behind the wheel.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, my aunt lives over the road and she is very sick. She wondered if she could have some of your pears.”
Her husband nodded. “Let me put the car away and I’ll get some for you,” he said.
Ten minutes later he re-emerged, dragging a wheelie bin behind him. I grabbed the side, fighting its inclination to tip as he climbed on top to reach up into the branches.
“They are for your aunt?” he asked.
I nodded. “She lives in that house,” I pointed.
“Yes,” he said, dropping the first of the fruit into my bowl. “I think I have seen her.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
He grabbed a branch and dug his strong fingers into the fold of leaves, producing fruit like a magician with a rabbit. “We’ve just come back from the hospital,” he said. “My brother was hit by a bus. His spleen is ruptured.” He snapped the branch back and grabbed another.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you now. Please. Come down.”
He gave me a sudden smile. “Your aunt. She is dying?”
“Yes. Soon I think.”
He nodded slowly, hanging from the branch as though the tree needed to share his weight. “Maybe my brother too. They don’t know. But,” he said producing another pear for the bowl, “I cannot help my brother. But I can do this for your aunt.”
The bowl was full now, almost a perfect globe brimming with green fruit.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll pray for your brother.”
He jumped down from the bin. “And I’ll pray for your aunt.”
I smiled through tears and carried my precious pears back to the house, noting the little green flies that swarmed on them and the hard lime of their skins.
She put one fruit to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Ah they’re lovely. We shall let them ripen on a windowsill and I’ll take them to the hospice on Thursday,” she said. Somehow I had known she would never eat one.
My uncle fretted. “And what am I supposed to do with all these?” he asked.
“Take them to the hospice?” I suggested.
“You should never have brought them. You should never have asked. There are more important things to ask for and you can’t have everything.”
“I know,” I said, sliding my arms around him as he tipped the pears into a new bowl. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “It was never about the fruit. She knows that.”
I don’t remember saying goodbye. That was her gift to me. I remember the hard green fruit and that all bitterness turns to sweetness in the end.
Peace and love
Louise x
