Liz Young's Blog, page 4

MERMAIDS

MERMAIDS

Long ago I lived in a vicarage which had eight bedrooms but,having been built when people weren’t so concerned with personal hygiene, onlyone bathroom. Therefore if Pa was in the bath at our bedtime, we cleaned ourteeth in the cigarette-scented steamy room, with Pa making sure we brushed forlong enough.

One day I was scrubbing my teeth when he said, “You like painting, Lizy – paint me somefish on that wall.”

Several small pots of shiny paint later, a mural of four fishof a kind unknown to Nature adorned the wall, together with some seaweed.

Mum wouldn’t let Pa have a mermaid.

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Memory is an odd thing, and it gets odder as we get older. Jennifer Prendergast's photo should have led to a story about writing, or treasure chests, or toys on the floor, but my mind shot instantly back to my distant childhood, and the thrill of being asked to produce a permanent work of art. I can still see that mural, and smell the combination of steam and cigarette smoke that marked Pa's bathtime.

SUPPER WITH BANANAS

 SUPPER WITH BANANAS      

Between 2000 and 2015 we celebrated special occasions in a banana plantation! 

It was called El Cordero - the Lamb - and a vast barbecue pit was the central feature. Everyone ate meat of all types & spicy sausages. There was salad and Canarian salty potatoes, salsa picante and salsa verde, and lots of rough vino tinto.

The canvas ceiling retained moisture & kept out dust and most of the flies. There were lots of banana plants, a few ferns to add privacy & atmosphere, sparrows flying around, and a feral cat or two.

Halcyon days in Tenerife.

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Days like today, with the temperature in the 30s, remind me of the fifteen years we lived in Tenerife. It was like the curate's egg - quite good in parts: remembering places such as El Cordero fill me with nostalgia, but the heat could be oppressive. In high summer we would spend a long time in Mercadona or Hiperdino, the local supermarkets, just so we could hover over the freezers to cool down before getting back into the small Hyundai oven we called a car.

Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo - I managed not to tell you my latest gardening story! - and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

IDEAS

  IDEAS

'Where do you get your ideas from?' is a question that's nigh on impossible to answer.

Sometimes they appear out of nowhere, like a lightning flash from a clear sky. Or some incident triggers a 'what if?' thought that niggles and grows until it demands to be written.

That's just the start, of course. What follow are weeks, months, sometimes years of thinking and writing. Then editing, deleting and re-writing through multiple drafts before finally I'm certain I can do no more.

Publish - and be damned by the typos I'd read and missed a hundred times!

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Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the photo prompt, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Ficitoneers. 

The above is definitely not fiction! 

I have seven novels and two books of poetry in print, all of which had to go through the same tortous process before hitting Amazon. You will find them there - if you can navigate past the other writers called Liz Young.

And I am within inches of the end of the first draft of novel #8, provisionally titled 'The Two Wives of Steven Denham' - watch this space!

GETTING UP LATE

 

GETTING UP LATE

Dave missedthe tram by seconds, and his desperate lunge for the door sent him flying intothe path of a cyclist. Cradling a broken wrist, he took a cab to the hospital,from where, belatedly, he phoned his boss.

The ForeignSecretary, annoyed by his absence, clutched a file of papers and rushed to herwaiting car, but her scarf caught in the revolving doors. She washalf-throttled before they could free her.

Dave watchedthe dramatic arrival of a stretcher accompanied by security men, blissfullyunaware that his failure to get up in time had averted a war.

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Thanks to Brenda Cox we have a photograph this week that could almost be England - red double-decker bus driving on the right - but is in fact an Oriental tram! It reminded me of a story I wrote years ago, of which this is a reprise/rewrite, as I've been too busy gardening to think of a new one!

 

RUDOLPH

 

RUDOLPH

Kate andSteve had rented the Air-BNB hoping their family could enjoy Christmas without fighting.It was ostentatiously rugged, with faux log walls, but the sofas were comfortableand the fire warm. Each day the children wore themselves out playing in thesnow, and the adults enjoyed long, relaxing evenings.

Then onChristmas Eve Kate suddenly screamed, “That head moved!”

Steve almostdropped his drink. “The nose is glowing red too!”

“Open thedoor,” boomed a voice and Steve, ashen-faced, obeyed.

On a blastof freezing air a rotund figure entered. “Come on, Rudolph, we’ve been waitingfor you.”

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Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for this week's Firday Fictioneers' image, which has prompted me to dash off a story before my day begins with a stint at the charity shop. Seeing a photo of a log cabin with a fire is an unwelcome reminder that winter is not too far away - and I'm still hoping my grapes will ripen! 

 

CHANNEL CROSSING

 

CHANNELCROSSING

‘It’ll befine, cherie,’ Louis Blériot assured his wife, ‘I’ll be therebefore you.’

Praying fervently he was right,Alice boarded the destroyer Escopette to sail to England to await hisarrival. From its deck she watched the flimsy plane run down the slope, holdingher breath until it had wobbled into the sky and set off across La Manche.

Thirty-sixminutes later Louis landed with a thump near Dover Castle, to be met by acorrespondent from the Daily Mail, who telephoned his paper with thenews that their £1000 prize had been won, not by the American brothersbut by a Frenchman.

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I took the above photograph at Tenerife Airport in 2013, the Centenary of the date the Frenchman Louis Bleriot flew his tiny plane into Tenerife. This was a replica, of course, but simply walking round it and seeing the bicycle wheels on its undercarriage gave me the shudders - fancy having the courage to cross the sea in that! 

This cement outline marks the spot where he landed at Dover, UK, on July 25th 1909 after a 36.5 minute flight across the English Channel, know to the French as La Manche.Apparently the owner of The Daily Mail had put up the £1000 prize fully expecting - even hoping? - that the American Wright brothers would win it!

The image below shows the slightly damaged plane after its somewhat rough landing on a field chosen at the last minute - Bleriot had been expected to land on Dover beach, so it took his wife a little while to reach him!

                                    

BACK TO NATURE

 

BACK TONATURE

We were usedto holidays in the Maldives, sleeping in a cabin with the murmur of waterbeneath us. Then the pandemic struck and we spent our savings keeping thebusiness afloat.

Holidayadverts in the Sunday papers taunted us, and in a mad moment we borrowed atent. Struggling with poles and ropes, tempers flared, and Tom stormed off,leaving me in the peace of the woodland.

Birdschirped, light rippled through leaves, insects buzzed, but there was onerasping sound that I couldn’t identify, city girl that I am.

Then the zipon the tent began to move.

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I have never holidayed in the Maldives but I have been camping in a borrowed tent. In fact, in retrospect at least, my husband and I didn't fight, the tent went up with surprising ease, and we and the children enjoyed our break. Even though the toilet block entailed a five minute walk carrying your own toilet roll!

Thanks to A J Wilson for the photo - I wonder why he chose to camp on dirt rather than on turf? - and to Rochelle, our indefatigable host. 

I was pleased this week to learn that I have sold another few books through Amazon, though it's a faff discovering which ones. Also two friends made a point of telling me they were enjoying reading them, and a cousin I haven't heard from in months emailed from Australia to say the same! If you haven't read any of them yet, a click on the cover image at the top of this page will take you to the latest one. NB: I am not the only Liz Young on Amazon, but a list of my books is on my Author Page.

LIVING FOREIGN

 

LIVINGFOREIGN

‘Living Foreign', 'Going Native’ – expats had various epithets, some of them very impolite, for anyonewho chose to embrace local life and customs.

Babs didn’tcare what they thought – she had come abroad to experience a new culture, notto create a patch of England with added sunshine.

The localfiesta was a wonderful event, and when her neighbour Constancia offered her acostume she wore it with pride. She hung the customary wreath of almond blossomon the door before she climbed onto the float, waving happily at the astonished,and slightly envious, expats in the crowd.

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When I lived in Tenerife I joined in the fire-building and fun at the annual Dia de San Juan, although I was a bit too nervous - and too creaky - to risk jumping over the flames. There were many fiestas: each town celebrated its own saint, and our local school held processions around our small town. The children were from many different countries, all of them had learned to speak Spanish quickly as that was the language they were taught in, and therefore the cheering crowds of parents and friends were a grand mixture of nationalities. 

Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the picture and to Rochelle   https://rochellewisoff.com/  for keeping this group going for so long. Without her weekly photo prompt I might have given up writing altogether when my life hit a rough patch. Instead of which, with FF and Twitter - @young_liz - keeping me ticking over, I have just begun resurrecting a novel I abandoned two years ago. Watch this space!

SHADES

 

SHADES

‘Why haveyou bought these horrid black curtains, Mum?’

‘They’reshades, darling, to keep out the sun.’

‘What’swrong with the sun?’

‘Let’s do ajigsaw puzzle,’ Helen suggested, and he was distracted, but she knew thequestion would be repeated many times. How could she explain to athree-year-old that sunshine would harm him? She remembered advertisementspromoting a ‘healthy tan’, summers spent on the beach in a skimpy bikini. Noweveryone wore long sleeves, hats and sun-glasses.

There’snothing wrong with the sun, she thought – it’s the way we’ve ruined theatmosphere that used to protect us.

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Anyoneover a certain age remembers those days spent lying in the sun, slathered inminimal protection cream, acquiring a tan. I am fortunate enough to have beentoo busy to lie out all day, and too skint to afford Mediterranean holidays, soI have - touch wood – avoided skin cancer.

Thanks toRoger Bultot for the image that prompts this week's stories and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers onher blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  where you can find a link to other writers' stories.

AND in atotal change of subject: the minute the word ‘shades’ popped into my head, sodid the first line of a song - 'The shades of night were falling fast'. Naturally I couldn’t recall the rest without theaid of Google, so here it is in its entirety – a sad song about a young man whoseems to have embarked on a completely futile quest, ignoring all advice to thecontrary. Remind you of anyone?

https://www.lieder.net/lieder/get_tex...

THE MEMORY IN THINGS

 

THEMEMORY IN THINGS

When we gotour first flat we were skint, sleeping on a bed from Mum’s spare room. Mikefound this bistro set in a skip, rubbed the rust off laboriously and painted itblue, then invited his parents round for tea. Mike and I sat on the bed!

Each time wemoved, Bistro came with us. We celebrated every anniversary at that table -even chose this house because the patio was perfect.

Bistro isrusting gently into old age now, and the kids say I should buy something morecomfortable, but it’s staying where it is.

Every flake of paint remindsme of Mike.

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I have several things that I've kept for the memories they hold rather than for their beauty or intrinsic value - no doubt you have too. I even mended an 80-year-old Teddy for a friend, who loves him because he's been with her since birth and he's still there inside his new fur.

Thanks as always are due to Rochelle, our hostess, and to Rowena Curtin for the photo that prompts this week's rash of short fiction from Friday Fictioneers.