Liz Young's Blog, page 7

UPRISING

 

UPRISING

‘Let’s go outside, Mother.’

‘It’s not allowed, Yasuf.’

‘But I want to blow my whistle!’

She looked at her small son’s trembling lip. Could she bear another year of restrictions? What kind of life was it for her child?

Taking his hand, she walked into the empty street, and as Yasuf blew his whistle their neighbours joined them. A trickle, a stream, a flood.

Soldiers came but the crowd stayed. Guns fired but people overpowered them. They stormed the fortress by sheer numbers, locked the dictators in the blood-soaked dungeons.

There were some martyrs, but a new year had truly begun.

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I am late on parade this week, but how to make Rochelle's image fit a New Year story was a challenge. I hope you think the result is worth the wait?

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read my writing this year. I wish you all a happy new year 2023, and may all your troubles be solvable.  

AND if any of you would buy my books - all available on Amazon - that would make my year too!

 

CHRISTMAS EVE BODIES

CHRISTMAS EVE BODIES                                    
                                                                                           

I must have been about seven, playing under the table and hidden by the cloth, when Mrs Thompson from next door asked Mum, “Have you heard the latest about your Madge?”

Mum said a rude word and asked, “What’s the old bat done now?”

I’d never even heard of Madge, but when Mrs Thompson said three men had been found lying in her back garden on Christmas Eve I must have gasped too loudly. Mum hauled me out and sent me packing, refusing to explain about the dead men.

So I asked Dad.

“We don’t talk about Auntie Madge – it upsets your mum,” he said, but I was wise to that trick

“Mum and Mrs Thompson were talking about her just now,” I said, so he sat me down, shut the door, and asked, “What did you hear?”

“There were three bodies found in her garden.”

“She wouldn’t hurt a soul,” Dad said, “but if you ever let on I told you about her, we’re both dead. She’s my dad’s sister. Some say she’s a witch because she’s always got huge bottles bubbling in her shed.”

“Wow! Is that why those men were dead?”

“Dead drunk, more likely,” Dad laughed. “They must have broken into her shed - and Madge’s wine packs a real wallop.”

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That's it, folks! I don't know how many people read my week of stories, but thank you to those who did. I wish you all a very Happy Christmas and a trouble-free New Year.

THE CAMEL HERDER

 

THE CAMEL HERDER

It was a mystery why my master undertook such a journey in mid-winter – all that way west just because he saw a brighter than usual star. He said it marked the birth of a king, which seems a bit far-fetched to me, but it’s not my place to question - the whims of the wealthy are impossible to fathom.

The camels didn’t appreciate leaving their warm stable, but with a mixture of goading and coaxing I got them moving. Travelling at night wasn’t easy, and I lost count of the number of times I stumbled over a rock in the dark. The camels’ big flat feet coped much better, but I had to keep hold of them - the kings were sleeping in their saddles half the night and I’d get the blame if one of them fell.

When we reached Judea, naturally we stopped at the palace, but no prince had been born there. Even so the ruler, Herod, made us welcome. It was bliss to sleep in clean straw that night, but we were off early the next day, and I heard the kings talking as they rode.

“Herod has invited us to stay longer on our return journey.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“What harm could he do to us with our well-armed retinue?”

“It isn’t us he would harm – an angel told me last night he means to kill the child.”

“You and your dreams! But why kill a baby?”

“Didn’t you see his face when Caspar referred to him as a king?”

“Ah – he fears the child may grow to be competition.”

…

The first shock was that this prince wasn’t born in a palace, not even in a decent house, but a stable! There they knelt, all three kings prostrating themselves in the straw and muck, and in their best robes too. They gave their gifts to the child and, call me fanciful if you like, I swear there was an aura about him. What’s more, it looked for all the world as if that tiny hand blessed them before they left for the comfortable lodgings their gold had secured in the crowded town.

After I’d settled the camels for the night I peered over into the next stall, hoping to see for myself what the fuss had been about. The child was suckling like any other baby, but the mother’s expression was strange. It was in part a mother’s love for her child, mingled with a touch of awe, but there was also fear, as if she knew a shadow hung over his future. His father gave me a look so I dropped back into the straw and slept, dreaming dark dreams.

We started for home in the morning, using another road that took us nowhere near Herod’s palace. The star remained over the stable.

…

A year or so later news reached us of a dreadful massacre. Apparently Herod was so afraid this baby king would seize his throne that he had killed every boy child in his kingdom. It makes the heart bleed to imagine it. I never did trust the Romans.

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I often wonder what stories lurk behind the main one - what were the thoughts of the huge retinue of staff that would have accompanied the journey of three kings from Persian lands afar. So this is how I imagine one of them might have reacted to being dragged across several countries in winter. I hope you enjoy reading it.

REFLECTIONS

 Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the photo prompt this week, and to Rochelle   https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Happy Hannuka, Rochelle & Dale! 

I hope you'll forgive me for exceeding the 100 word limit - I cut at much as I could :)

REFLECTIONS

I remember childhood Christmases, opening my stocking in the dark and nibbling the nose from the sugar mouse.

Our first Christmas in our new house, decorating a small tree for our two-month-old baby.

Twelve years later, four children and I created crib figures, which I use every year.

When the children had moved away, we hosted full English breakfasts for groups of friends - eventually the numbers grew to over thirty!

We even took the tradition to Tenerife, with breakfast on the terrace in the sun.

Now back in England, I enjoy again a proper Carol Service followed by mulled wine and mince pies, then turkey and presents with my family.

I wish you all a Happy Christmas, and may your memories be happy ones.

The Crib figuresBreakfast on the terrace Christmas 2000


'Glow Wild' at Wakehurst Gardens, December 2020 RIP Don...........................................................................I have blogged every day this week in the run up to Christmas. If you have time, scroll down to read all of them.

CHRISTMAS TOYS

 

BLACKIE

 

Blackie was lonely and lost and cold,

out in the woods in the dark;

the wind in the trees was making a noise

that made him afraid to bark;

 

So he set off to find somewhere warmer and safe -

up to his tummy in mud,

he crept though the grass past the cows as they lay

sleepily chewing the cud.

 

A fox trotted by looking for his next meal,

and gave him a terrible fright,

the owls and the bats were out hunting as well –

he was scared on his own in the night.

 

Then down from the sky swooped a sleigh full of toys,

and a white-bearded man dressed in red,

who picked Blackie up, and the next thing he knew

he was snuggled with Debs in her bed!

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My daughter Debs still has Blackie, which I made for her Christmas present 50 years ago. Blackie is a bit squashed now - being slept on for 50 years will do that to a dog - but she wouldn't part with him.

My children owned innumerable soft toys, and some remained favourites long after their childhood. I wrote some light-hearted poems about them, included some of my grandchildren's toys, added drawings, and the result was this book, which you can buy from Amazon. Add a pack of colouring pencils to make a gift for a child!

Amazon.co.uk : stripey cat

UNEXPECTED GUESTS

 KIKA                                   

A few days before our first Tenerife Christmas, in 2000, we woke up to find a cat and her four kittens on our terrace. We hosted an al fresco breakfast that day for a dozen guests, and she stayed put throughout. Once Christmas was over we re-homed the kittens but Kika stayed. Don, who professed to hate cats, spoiled her rotten, saying it was because her eyes were blue like his – they also turned red at night!

She used to wait on the swimming-pool wall when we went out and welcome us home with a spectacular display of somersaults. As she got older she would sometimes misjudge a leap through the railing and bang her head - she actually knocked a tooth out doing it. Sparrows would come to the garden for the combings of her hair with which to line their nests, and she'd watch them unmoving - they soon learned to ignore her.

She became fully domesticated, but there remained hints of her former wildness. She'd panic if the door was shut with her inside the apartment, she still had mad moments when she'd race from one end of the terrace to the other after a bougainvillea flower, and she refused to drink clean water, preferring the mucky brown stuff in the bottom of the plant pots.

We delayed our return to England until she reached the end of her life, and I have never found a cat to replace her - she was unique.

ALBIE'S XMAS STOCKING

 Albie's fingers explored through the wool of the sock, prolonging for as long as possible the moment when he would open his first ever Christmas stocking. He found the unmistakable rubbery resistance of a ball that’d fit nicely in a pocket on school-days, but Mum had been sneaky and disguised the other packages with many layers of newspaper. Albie extracted one small present at a time, opening each one as slowly as in a game of pass-the-parcel. The ball was black in the moonlight but he guessed it was red — he bounced it a couple of times before remembering Dad was still snoring on the other side of the thin wall. A box opened to reveal a model car, all shiny paint and bulbous headlamps with a real driver you could take out. There was a catapult he’d lay odds Dad had slipped in when Mum wasn’t looking, and which he hid behind one of the small drawers in his chest. A bag of toffees and a sugar mouse came next — he dangled the mouse by its tail so he could bite the head off — and then, right in the toe of the sock, he found an orange and a sixpence.

He laid it all out on the worn eiderdown and gazed at the little heap, then wiped his cheeks angrily. He must be turning soft, blubbing over a few bits and bobs from Woolworth's. 

This is an extract from my book HELTER-SKELTER - there might have been a bit of my own nostalgia in mind when I wrote it!

You can buy HELTER-SKELTER and its sequel CAROUSEL from Amazon - it might even arrive in time for Christmas if you're lucky, but if not there are many long winter nights ahead when curling up with an absorbing story is an inviting prospect.

STILL A BOY

STILL A BOY                                                 

Why do I weep?

Each week I sit here, praying for the strength to keep working for long enough to see my children grown. Between work and supper I come to attend evensong.

Let others gawp at the clergy in their gorgeous robes heavy with enough gold to feed my family for life. I come only to hear my son’s pure voice soar to that vaulted ceiling, where even the stone angels lean closer to listen. When he is chosen to sing solo my heart swells with pride.

He was singing in the street for pennies when the priest heard him, and said his voice was a gift from God which was wasted in the gutter. At the time I was happy to let him go – with five mouths to feed life was hard - but now I am torn in two.

They are going to cut him, to stop him becoming a man and keep his voice still that of a boy. My rough-and-tumble lad turned into a nothing, neither man nor woman for the rest of his life! But I cannot take him home – I cannot feed another mouth.

Do you wonder that I weep?

REFLECTIONS

 

REFLECTIONS

Looking out of this window I imagine I'm twenty again in my first flat, swallowing tears and trying not to admit I’m homesick to Dad, who's fixing my shelves. Wish he was here now.

Yesterday’s window was open to Mediterranean air, the click of cicadas, kitchen sounds of Mum cooking pasta.

Tomorrow – who knows? Anywhere other than here.

I never imagined I'd be spending Christmas stuck in a bleak hotel room overlooking a foreign street, no-one to see but masked strangers.

Damned Covid!

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A sad story for a rainy photo - thanks Rochelle!

If you'd like to read a bit of satirical verse, scroll down to Tuesday 6th on my blog. Feel free to comment on either this or that.

GOING SPARE

 

I thought I’d write a book about my miserable life,

How Daddy doesn’t love me and doesn’t like my wife -

He stopped my pocket money the minute we were wed!

And as I was born second I can’t be the family’s head -

I wouldn’t want to anyway, they’re prejudiced and mean,

I’ve had to toe the line ever since I was a teen,

And I’m so mad at them that I am laying my soul bare

In several hundred pages of my book, ‘Going Spare’.

.................. Do you think anyone will buy it? ....................................