Victoria Pearson's Blog, page 2
May 31, 2013
Strange Worlds - Surreal Stories and Tainted Tales
Strange Worlds – Surreal Stories and Tainted Tales has
finally made it into the world, and now I can understand why some writers
compare bringing a book into the world with bringing a baby into the world.
It honestly felt like every time I thought I was there it
turned out there was just one more push. One more typo spotted so yet another
complete and thorough read through needed. One more tweak on the cover. One
more rethink on the layout. It felt like it would ever end.
And now all of a sudden, she is born, and all of the anxiety
and stress and worry fade away and I’m left thinking “wow, I created this.”
Yeah, I’m a proud book mummy once more, so before I gush
further and start to embarrass myself, I’ll stop, and offer the links to find it:
Createspace e-store (please note shipping times and prices are beyond my control): https://www.createspace.com/4022460
Other links will be posted as they become live :~)
May 22, 2013
Still Waters
Wise is he who does not speak
Who holds the contrariness in
For while all others flap their lips
They are just making din
Wise is he who listens well
Who knows when not to speak
Who themselves does not sell
Is modest, mild and meek.
Wise is he who does not know
Who seeks to question why
With feet firm on ground below
While gazing at the sky.
Wise is he who keeps their
tongue
Still waters do run deep
So when they tell you what they think
Their counsel you should keep.
April 25, 2013
No New Page
They say a new life is a blank page.
No new page, you.
You knew who you were the moment you fought your way into
the world, took you first furious breath. You dropped onto my chest, lifted your
head and looked me straight in the eye.
You knew who you were. No new page, you.
Your personality wrote large in your every
movement from your first day. Placid when you had what you knew you wanted,
filled with quiet determination. A full person.
And now I see, as you stand tall before me, my almost man, that
the core I saw was the canvas. No new page you are now, but new page you were.
Now you are shaded by
my teachings, coloured by my lore.
Not just I, that marked your new page, but all of the world.
So many marks I’ve shielded you from, but so many I couldn’t stop. Light and shade splashed across my perfect canvas.
I look at you now, my artwork but not only mine.
No eraser have I to remove the marks that I regret, no
tippex to cover the stains the world left. I can only colour you with more
love, for as long as I can, cross hatch you with happy memories.
If I had an eraser I wouldn’t use it. To take away a single
stroke would be to change the whole picture. The bad times sit with the good in
you, make you who you are.
You were a new page, bundled up small in my arms.
Now you stand tall, and look me straight in the eye.
No new page, you.
You are a masterpiece.
April 15, 2013
Be Careful What You Wish For
This story was written for Anna Meade, for her Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower ( #DFQWBS ). As she is a dark fairy queen, I'm sure she won't mind a slightly dark story (I hope!)
Author Name: Victoria Pearson
Title: Be Careful what you wish for
e-book: yes
We married young, but had known each other forever. Literally
forever, I can’t remember a time before she was in my life.
We swapped sweetie rings on my eighth birthday in the field
behind our estate, still dressed in matching princess gowns from my tea-party.
I was overjoyed; she was all I had wanted for my birthday,
the only one I wanted there. My parents wanted me to invite all of the girls in
my class but I just didn’t fit in with them; they weren’t like my Marie.
We told our parents that we had married, out in the big
field, swapped rings and vows before the setting sun. They thought it was cute.
I think they thought we’d grow out of it.
We never grew out of each other. We were just as close when
we were thirteen, had sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend, same
hairstyles, same clothes.
We still held hands, even though she started to pull hers
away when people were around. We spent long summer days kissing in the field we
married in.
Life stopped when we were fourteen. Her family suddenly moved.
I actually felt my heart break. I sat for months, going through a shoebox of
memories over and over, waiting for her to call. She never did, despite
promising she would.
I sleepwalked through the next few years, not bothering much
with anything, failing my exams in a daze. My parents got me my job in the
charity shop; a misguided attempt to help.
When I heard that she had married a man and was pregnant
what was left of my heart broke all over again. I should have been happy for
her, but I resented her moving on, finding a love so different from me. I
couldn’t help but feel betrayed; she was married to me.
I did resolve to try and forget her, try to move on. I did
try.
I trudged into work knowing
that my witch of a boss had decided that a box of silverware needed to be
scrubbed. I told her it wouldn’t sell anyway. I wish I’d argued harder now.
I was on my knees in the claustrophobic back room, scrubbing
the thing I had presumed was a teapot, but I guess it could well have been a
lamp.
The tiny room filled suddenly with acrid smoke and a fat middle
aged man with a curly moustache appeared. I guessed he was a genie straight
away, mostly because he was levitating.
“You get one wish” he said in a bored tone, inspecting his
fingernails. “None of this I thought it was three wishes nonsense. My
department has suffered terrible budget cuts. One’s your lot. Choose
carefully.”
“Maria” my heart whispered and I only realised I had said it
out loud when he clicked his fingers, said “done and done” and disappeared.
“Have you been smoking in here?” The old witch asked, bustling in. I didn’t
tell her. What would I say? I convinced myself it was fumes from the silver
cleaner.
It wasn’t until I got back to mum and dad’s that I realised
how real it had been.
Maria was sitting at the kitchen table, chatting with mum.
“You’re home then?” said mum, putting the kettle on. “Me and
Maria were talking about how you two should start thinking about your own
place.”
“Our own place?” I asked, confused.
“Well, a married couple should have their own space” she
carried on, “dad and I can help you with the deposit.”
It’s like she has always been here. She has no memory of her husband. Presumably,
he has no memory of her. She remembers us growing up together. I sort of do
too.
She knows though, somewhere deep in her soul. I feel it when
she snatches her hand from mine in front of people. I taste it in the coldness
of her kiss. I sense it in the distance between us when we make love.
This isn’t how it was meant to be.
That bloody teapot sold as well. I wish I’d known. I wish
I’d said world peace, or winning the lottery or a toilet made of gold.
So for now I’ll spend every Wednesday scrubbing any old
teapot I can find. And if ever another genie comes, I won’t hesitate to give
Maria her life back.
Because I love her.
A toast to Anna and Michael: I wish you many lifetimes of happiness together and, as someone who has been married forever, the only advice I can give is be kind to each other. True love is not just about having the right partner, it is about being the right partner. xxx
See the other entries here
Author Name: Victoria Pearson
Title: Be Careful what you wish for
e-book: yes
We married young, but had known each other forever. Literally
forever, I can’t remember a time before she was in my life.
We swapped sweetie rings on my eighth birthday in the field
behind our estate, still dressed in matching princess gowns from my tea-party.
I was overjoyed; she was all I had wanted for my birthday,
the only one I wanted there. My parents wanted me to invite all of the girls in
my class but I just didn’t fit in with them; they weren’t like my Marie.
We told our parents that we had married, out in the big
field, swapped rings and vows before the setting sun. They thought it was cute.
I think they thought we’d grow out of it.
We never grew out of each other. We were just as close when
we were thirteen, had sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend, same
hairstyles, same clothes.
We still held hands, even though she started to pull hers
away when people were around. We spent long summer days kissing in the field we
married in.
Life stopped when we were fourteen. Her family suddenly moved.
I actually felt my heart break. I sat for months, going through a shoebox of
memories over and over, waiting for her to call. She never did, despite
promising she would.
I sleepwalked through the next few years, not bothering much
with anything, failing my exams in a daze. My parents got me my job in the
charity shop; a misguided attempt to help.
When I heard that she had married a man and was pregnant
what was left of my heart broke all over again. I should have been happy for
her, but I resented her moving on, finding a love so different from me. I
couldn’t help but feel betrayed; she was married to me.
I did resolve to try and forget her, try to move on. I did
try.
I trudged into work knowing
that my witch of a boss had decided that a box of silverware needed to be
scrubbed. I told her it wouldn’t sell anyway. I wish I’d argued harder now.
I was on my knees in the claustrophobic back room, scrubbing
the thing I had presumed was a teapot, but I guess it could well have been a
lamp.
The tiny room filled suddenly with acrid smoke and a fat middle
aged man with a curly moustache appeared. I guessed he was a genie straight
away, mostly because he was levitating.
“You get one wish” he said in a bored tone, inspecting his
fingernails. “None of this I thought it was three wishes nonsense. My
department has suffered terrible budget cuts. One’s your lot. Choose
carefully.”
“Maria” my heart whispered and I only realised I had said it
out loud when he clicked his fingers, said “done and done” and disappeared.
“Have you been smoking in here?” The old witch asked, bustling in. I didn’t
tell her. What would I say? I convinced myself it was fumes from the silver
cleaner.
It wasn’t until I got back to mum and dad’s that I realised
how real it had been.
Maria was sitting at the kitchen table, chatting with mum.
“You’re home then?” said mum, putting the kettle on. “Me and
Maria were talking about how you two should start thinking about your own
place.”
“Our own place?” I asked, confused.
“Well, a married couple should have their own space” she
carried on, “dad and I can help you with the deposit.”
It’s like she has always been here. She has no memory of her husband. Presumably,
he has no memory of her. She remembers us growing up together. I sort of do
too.
She knows though, somewhere deep in her soul. I feel it when
she snatches her hand from mine in front of people. I taste it in the coldness
of her kiss. I sense it in the distance between us when we make love.
This isn’t how it was meant to be.
That bloody teapot sold as well. I wish I’d known. I wish
I’d said world peace, or winning the lottery or a toilet made of gold.
So for now I’ll spend every Wednesday scrubbing any old
teapot I can find. And if ever another genie comes, I won’t hesitate to give
Maria her life back.
Because I love her.
A toast to Anna and Michael: I wish you many lifetimes of happiness together and, as someone who has been married forever, the only advice I can give is be kind to each other. True love is not just about having the right partner, it is about being the right partner. xxx
See the other entries here
March 13, 2013
Bird-Watching
Note: This is another work in progress that will probably change a lot before I call it finished. It might make it into Strange Stories 3. I am, as usual, very unsure of the title (my son actually thinks it should be called "I remember" - which may well be a good idea). I'd love to know what you think it should be called, so feel free to leave your idea for the title in the comments section. I may well end up using it :~)
Bird-Watching
From where I sit now, whiling
away my teatime years in this scruffy bedroom I can see the trees waving
long-fingered branches though the window. I watch every morning as the birds
wake and greet the dawn with their musical nonsense, watch the return in the
evenings, flocking together, from whatever business has kept them from their
boughs during the day.
I remember, all those years ago,
when birds made their home in my branches. It has been so long, but I recall
the soft sunlight caressing my bark, the gentle kiss of rain.
It hurt when they cut me down. I screamed
as the axe bit into my bark, cried as the saws bit into my heartwood. My birds
fled to foliages new. It took days, days to turn me from a tall proud part of
the landscape to so much timber and sawdust on the ground.
I have a gap in my memory there;
it was many years ago, after all. The next thing I recall is being polished. It
felt so nice after the violence and rough treatment. He was old, the man who
waxed and oiled and rubbed, running his fingers along my grain, old but gentle.
I had never experienced such a touch – not from my birds, o the children that
would limb me or the young couple that carved their initials into my trunk
inside a heart shape, scarring me with their declaration for far longer than
their love would last.
I don’t have a trunk anymore. Now
I stand unsteadily on four spindly elegantly curved legs.
Once, when I was a tree, a small
boy climbed high into my branches. There he froze, terrified, unable to move up
or down. Another human came – his mother, I think – and tried to coax him down
but he called to her that he couldn’t move, that his head was spinning from the
height.
I didn’t understand at the time, I
didn’t think he had gone that high – there were still plenty of branches above
him. I felt sorry for him, for all of the humans, skulking about down in the
dirt, never reaching for the sky.
When I came to in that workshop
though, stood on four legs instead of a single, solid, trunk, I felt an echo of
that boy’s fear. i felt so small, so low to the ground. I felt exposed without
my canopy of leaves and twigs to shield me.
I sat in that workshop for almost
a season, watching my maker fashion drawers and handles. By the time he was
finished with me I had gotten used to the lowness of being.
One day I was picked up and
carried by rough hands, taken into the back of a van. I had seen such things
before, of course, but I had never appreciated the loudness of them, nor the
size. They had been like scuttling beetles in my old life, now they were large
enough to fit me inside.
They took me to a large room,
filled with tables, chairs, writing desks and cabinets. None were so fine as
me, of course, with my secret drawer and room for a mirror. I sat there for
several days, getting irritated with the chattering chairs that would titter
and preen and hope whenever someone walked through the door. We all wanted to
be chosen – nobody wanted to be the last left in the shop, unwanted.
When she walked in I knew she’d
choose me. Refined, neat, elegant, how could she want anyone but me? She chose,
as I knew she would, the shy, gilded, three-part mirror to sit on me. I had
known from the moment I saw that mirror that we would end up together, we were
perfect for each other. The mirror was quiet and reserved and much older than
me but we got along famously – it was as if we were made for each other.
We sat in that lady’s dressing
roo for years, listening to the vain chatter of the perfume bottles. My heartwood
was utterly broken when my beautiful mirror was cracked by an unruly toddler
and sent away. The mirror was replaced with another, an oval, magnifying
monstrosity with an inflated sense of self importance. We never really got on.
Human lives are over in a mere
rustle of leaves though, and that unruly toddler swiftly blossomed into
womanhood and moved away. I didn’t see her again until after the death of my
first owner. She came into the dressing room and sat in front of me, sniffing
at the uncharacteristicly silent perfume bottles and raining from her eyes.
She took me away a few days later
to sit in her hall. It was a bit of an adjustment going from beinggoing from
being a proper lady’s dressing table to being a common telephone table – my drawers
now overstuffed with junk mail and till receipts, my once flawless finished now
scratched by keys and discarded handfuls of change.
It was busier in the hall than I was
used to and at first the comings and goings were too much for me but I learned
to adapt and eventually came to enjoy the bustle. I watched the children grow
up, watched them leaving for school in the mornings, tolerated their school
bags and homework when they got home. The eldest boy carved his initials into
the base of one of my drawers with his compass. I was taken back to the lovers
that carved their mark into my trunk and I wondered what became of them.
It went so swiftly, my time in
the hall. The children grew from chubby limbed toddlers to front-door slamming
teenagers in what felt like moments. All too soon black-clad humans were
sobbing in the hall, and I watched them pack up the house around me.
I heard the children – adults now-
discussing what was to become of me. The girl didn’t have the space for me, she
said, but the boy was married now and his wife liked modern furniture, didn’t want
dusty cast offs from her late mother in law. It hurt to hear myself spoken
about that way; I used to be something to be proud of.
The boy took me, in the end. He wrapped
me in a sheet and man-handled me into the back of his van. I’m sure he didn’t mean
to chip the veneer on my leg, leaving a large unsightly gash.
I wondered where I was to go this
time. Would I be a lady’s dressing table again? Or a hall table? Perhaps this
time I would sit in pride of place in the living room, supporting the
television set. I had seen the TV table often, through the open door as I sat
in the hallway and the job didn’t look too difficult. I could never have
expected what was to come. Too much pride, I suppose.
The wife was not at all happy
that I had come home with her husband. She even insinuated that I might have
woodworm! I mean, honestly! He told her he thought I might be useful, and then
took me into his garage.
I was petrified, I don’t mind
telling you. All of those saws and crowbars and axes – it took me right back to
my last day as a tree. The pain of being felled felt no less sharp now than it
had been then. I wondered if I were to be hacked into pieces, burned in the
fireplace.
The other furniture in the garage
was strange to me. The shelving units were made of metal and their bolts and
screws were visible to anyone who cared to look. Shameless.
They tried to say hello but I was
stubborn and didn’t speak. I am ashamed to admit that I thought myself better
than them.
I don’t know how long I sulked
for – the seasons didn’t show in the windowless garage. I made my secret drawer
stick, shedded my beautiful handles. Never-the-less you can’t halt progress and
life does go on. My drawers started to fill with allen keys, screwdrivers, tins
of nails. My surface started to clutter with tubes of glue and pots of paint. I
remember the first time he spilled green acrylic paint on my surface. It was
such a shock – the only other time I had been spilled upon before I had been
instantly wiped down. He just tutted and carried on painting the model aeroplane
he was working on.
I think that is when I started to
relax and I started to make more of an effort with the other garage dwellers. The
bikes were full of amazing stories and everyone was so friendly. I began to
feel guilty for being so rude when I first arrived. The hose assured me that it
was understandable, that I was forgiven. Slat of the earth, those guys were,
and I miss them terribly at times.
We all left on the same day, some
of us being loaded into the biggest vans I had ever seen, some of us, including
myself and a rusted one-wheeled bike into a large yellow contraption that the
human called a skip.
I don’t know what would have
happened if she hadn’t arrived then, my current owner. She has a common way of
speaking that reminds me a little of the spanners and monkey wrenches that
until recently filled my drawers.
“You chucking that out?” she
asked as I was tipped into the skip, “surely not?” the man smiled at her then.
“You can have it if you want” he
told her.
“Seriously? What do you want for
it?” she asked.
“You can have it” he said “it’s
just junk”
Junk indeed. He had never
appreciated my beauty, my simple lines. Even now he didn’t appreciate my
usefulness, despite using me for the longest time.
She appreciates me though. She stripped
me so carefully, tickling me with her sandpaper. She painted me an intense
bright white – I had never been painted before and it made me feel so fresh. She
replaced my handles, and lined my drawers with scented paper.
It is nice to be loved again. I watch
her while she sleeps, hold her perfumes on my surface, and protect her
favourite lingerie in my secret drawer. I watch the birds through the window.
And I remember.
Bird-Watching
From where I sit now, whiling
away my teatime years in this scruffy bedroom I can see the trees waving
long-fingered branches though the window. I watch every morning as the birds
wake and greet the dawn with their musical nonsense, watch the return in the
evenings, flocking together, from whatever business has kept them from their
boughs during the day.
I remember, all those years ago,
when birds made their home in my branches. It has been so long, but I recall
the soft sunlight caressing my bark, the gentle kiss of rain.
It hurt when they cut me down. I screamed
as the axe bit into my bark, cried as the saws bit into my heartwood. My birds
fled to foliages new. It took days, days to turn me from a tall proud part of
the landscape to so much timber and sawdust on the ground.
I have a gap in my memory there;
it was many years ago, after all. The next thing I recall is being polished. It
felt so nice after the violence and rough treatment. He was old, the man who
waxed and oiled and rubbed, running his fingers along my grain, old but gentle.
I had never experienced such a touch – not from my birds, o the children that
would limb me or the young couple that carved their initials into my trunk
inside a heart shape, scarring me with their declaration for far longer than
their love would last.
I don’t have a trunk anymore. Now
I stand unsteadily on four spindly elegantly curved legs.
Once, when I was a tree, a small
boy climbed high into my branches. There he froze, terrified, unable to move up
or down. Another human came – his mother, I think – and tried to coax him down
but he called to her that he couldn’t move, that his head was spinning from the
height.
I didn’t understand at the time, I
didn’t think he had gone that high – there were still plenty of branches above
him. I felt sorry for him, for all of the humans, skulking about down in the
dirt, never reaching for the sky.
When I came to in that workshop
though, stood on four legs instead of a single, solid, trunk, I felt an echo of
that boy’s fear. i felt so small, so low to the ground. I felt exposed without
my canopy of leaves and twigs to shield me.
I sat in that workshop for almost
a season, watching my maker fashion drawers and handles. By the time he was
finished with me I had gotten used to the lowness of being.
One day I was picked up and
carried by rough hands, taken into the back of a van. I had seen such things
before, of course, but I had never appreciated the loudness of them, nor the
size. They had been like scuttling beetles in my old life, now they were large
enough to fit me inside.
They took me to a large room,
filled with tables, chairs, writing desks and cabinets. None were so fine as
me, of course, with my secret drawer and room for a mirror. I sat there for
several days, getting irritated with the chattering chairs that would titter
and preen and hope whenever someone walked through the door. We all wanted to
be chosen – nobody wanted to be the last left in the shop, unwanted.
When she walked in I knew she’d
choose me. Refined, neat, elegant, how could she want anyone but me? She chose,
as I knew she would, the shy, gilded, three-part mirror to sit on me. I had
known from the moment I saw that mirror that we would end up together, we were
perfect for each other. The mirror was quiet and reserved and much older than
me but we got along famously – it was as if we were made for each other.
We sat in that lady’s dressing
roo for years, listening to the vain chatter of the perfume bottles. My heartwood
was utterly broken when my beautiful mirror was cracked by an unruly toddler
and sent away. The mirror was replaced with another, an oval, magnifying
monstrosity with an inflated sense of self importance. We never really got on.
Human lives are over in a mere
rustle of leaves though, and that unruly toddler swiftly blossomed into
womanhood and moved away. I didn’t see her again until after the death of my
first owner. She came into the dressing room and sat in front of me, sniffing
at the uncharacteristicly silent perfume bottles and raining from her eyes.
She took me away a few days later
to sit in her hall. It was a bit of an adjustment going from beinggoing from
being a proper lady’s dressing table to being a common telephone table – my drawers
now overstuffed with junk mail and till receipts, my once flawless finished now
scratched by keys and discarded handfuls of change.
It was busier in the hall than I was
used to and at first the comings and goings were too much for me but I learned
to adapt and eventually came to enjoy the bustle. I watched the children grow
up, watched them leaving for school in the mornings, tolerated their school
bags and homework when they got home. The eldest boy carved his initials into
the base of one of my drawers with his compass. I was taken back to the lovers
that carved their mark into my trunk and I wondered what became of them.
It went so swiftly, my time in
the hall. The children grew from chubby limbed toddlers to front-door slamming
teenagers in what felt like moments. All too soon black-clad humans were
sobbing in the hall, and I watched them pack up the house around me.
I heard the children – adults now-
discussing what was to become of me. The girl didn’t have the space for me, she
said, but the boy was married now and his wife liked modern furniture, didn’t want
dusty cast offs from her late mother in law. It hurt to hear myself spoken
about that way; I used to be something to be proud of.
The boy took me, in the end. He wrapped
me in a sheet and man-handled me into the back of his van. I’m sure he didn’t mean
to chip the veneer on my leg, leaving a large unsightly gash.
I wondered where I was to go this
time. Would I be a lady’s dressing table again? Or a hall table? Perhaps this
time I would sit in pride of place in the living room, supporting the
television set. I had seen the TV table often, through the open door as I sat
in the hallway and the job didn’t look too difficult. I could never have
expected what was to come. Too much pride, I suppose.
The wife was not at all happy
that I had come home with her husband. She even insinuated that I might have
woodworm! I mean, honestly! He told her he thought I might be useful, and then
took me into his garage.
I was petrified, I don’t mind
telling you. All of those saws and crowbars and axes – it took me right back to
my last day as a tree. The pain of being felled felt no less sharp now than it
had been then. I wondered if I were to be hacked into pieces, burned in the
fireplace.
The other furniture in the garage
was strange to me. The shelving units were made of metal and their bolts and
screws were visible to anyone who cared to look. Shameless.
They tried to say hello but I was
stubborn and didn’t speak. I am ashamed to admit that I thought myself better
than them.
I don’t know how long I sulked
for – the seasons didn’t show in the windowless garage. I made my secret drawer
stick, shedded my beautiful handles. Never-the-less you can’t halt progress and
life does go on. My drawers started to fill with allen keys, screwdrivers, tins
of nails. My surface started to clutter with tubes of glue and pots of paint. I
remember the first time he spilled green acrylic paint on my surface. It was
such a shock – the only other time I had been spilled upon before I had been
instantly wiped down. He just tutted and carried on painting the model aeroplane
he was working on.
I think that is when I started to
relax and I started to make more of an effort with the other garage dwellers. The
bikes were full of amazing stories and everyone was so friendly. I began to
feel guilty for being so rude when I first arrived. The hose assured me that it
was understandable, that I was forgiven. Slat of the earth, those guys were,
and I miss them terribly at times.
We all left on the same day, some
of us being loaded into the biggest vans I had ever seen, some of us, including
myself and a rusted one-wheeled bike into a large yellow contraption that the
human called a skip.
I don’t know what would have
happened if she hadn’t arrived then, my current owner. She has a common way of
speaking that reminds me a little of the spanners and monkey wrenches that
until recently filled my drawers.
“You chucking that out?” she
asked as I was tipped into the skip, “surely not?” the man smiled at her then.
“You can have it if you want” he
told her.
“Seriously? What do you want for
it?” she asked.
“You can have it” he said “it’s
just junk”
Junk indeed. He had never
appreciated my beauty, my simple lines. Even now he didn’t appreciate my
usefulness, despite using me for the longest time.
She appreciates me though. She stripped
me so carefully, tickling me with her sandpaper. She painted me an intense
bright white – I had never been painted before and it made me feel so fresh. She
replaced my handles, and lined my drawers with scented paper.
It is nice to be loved again. I watch
her while she sleeps, hold her perfumes on my surface, and protect her
favourite lingerie in my secret drawer. I watch the birds through the window.
And I remember.
January 26, 2013
7 line challenge
The lovely Charlie Plunkett tagged me into this 7 line challenge. It feels
somewhat familiar as I have done something similar on this blog before, but I
posted from page 7 of my novel – length WIP, The Soul Bus, so this time I shall
post from page 77 instead. I know, I know – you were hoping for a sneak peek
from Strange Worlds (the next Strange Stories book in the series) instead, but
you’ll have to wait. It won’t be for long!
Thanks for tagging me
in Charlie.
“Right, under cover,
of course” said the imp. He slowly began scribbling with the blunt end of his
wand on a pad of carbon paper “This is your copy” he said, handing Jeff a pink
piece of paper “and the yellow is for me. We keep the white on record. I’m legally
obliged to tell you that your vehicle may be searched and, if left for longer
than the allotted amount of time will be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Don’t lose that bit of paper; we won’t release the vehicle without it.”
“Thanks,” said Jeff.
“Don’t let the beast out, she’s hungry”
“Enjoy your stay in
Hell,” said the imp, raising the barrier.
Tag! You’re it!
The fabulous writers I have chosen to tag in are:
Louise West
Heather Smith
Hannah Andronic
Jaq D Hawkins
William Axtell
M. Andrew Patterson
Dawn Husted
This is your mission:
Go to line 7 on either page 7 or page 77 of your manuscript and post the
next 7 lines, then tag 7 people to keep the challenge going! This a short and
savvy way to see what others out there in the blogosphere are writing and get a
sneak peek of what your favourite author may be bringing out soon.
:~)
January 12, 2013
Angels
It was raining when I met my wife. It was about two in the morning, the streets
just starting to fill with belligerent drunks. She had been out with a friend
but the friend got lucky and left her to get home alone. She had run out of
money but decided to walk home as she didn’t live far from the town centre. To this
day she insists that she would have gotten home just fine if her stiletto heel
hadn’t caught in a drain, breaking the heel and twisting her ankle quite badly.
I was tipsy myself, having left my mates because they were already
out drinking me, and settling down for a serious session of liver murdering. I
had a headache and was just finding it all a bit much. I had hoped the cool air
would clear my head.
I offered her help, maybe hoping if I’m honest that tonight
would turn out to be a good night after all. As soon as I got close I realised
she was far too far gone to know what she was doing. I couldn’t take advantage,
but I couldn’t live her there, easy prey for any passing predator. I could have
put her in a taxi, I suppose, but it just didn’t feel right. She was so
ridiculously beautiful, and so ridiculously drunk. It didn’t feel safe.
I gave her a piggy back instead, with her laughing and
squealing all the way. She wasn’t sober enough to coherently tell me where she
lived, but she had her driver’s license in her purse, perhaps optimistically
hoping to be asked for ID, and the address on it was up to date.
I opened the door for her, realised she lived in an upstairs
flat and carried her up. I laid her on the sofa and rummaged in her orderly little kitchen until I found a glass
of water and some frozen peas for her ankle. I looked for a bucket in case she
was sick, but I couldn’t find one so I took the washing up bowl in instead.
She was fast asleep when I re-entered the living room, so I set
the bowl on the floor next to her, and put the glass of water on the coffee
table, in her line of sight. She’d need that in the morning.
She woke up a little bit when I tilted her head to the side,
just in case.
“I got you some ice for your ankle.” I told her. “it will be
cold though.”
She nodded her assent sleepily, eyes half closed, then let
out an ear-splitting squeal when I laid
the bag of frozen peas on her ankle, then I was shushing her and she was
shushing me and we were giggling like a pair of kids . There is a moment when
the air goes semi solid, and I am suddenly very aware of her lips and I just
know we are going to kiss. I know if we do, it won’t end there.
I didn’t want it to be like that. I knew even then that she
was special.
“I have to go.” I told her.
“Now? “ She asked, and she looked so sad. “You don’t want to…stay?”
“Next time?” I ask her, “I’ll leave you my number?”
“Sure” she said, all sleepy again “I might even call ya” but
she winks at me and giggles again. I took her phone and had started programming
my number into it when she said, “I think you are an angel”. I didn’t really
know what to say, but I put Angel instead of my name into her phone, to act as
a memory jogger.
“Talk soon?” I said, but she was asleep, so I left as
quietly as I could.
Weird really, that she should call me an angel, when that
night an angel appeared to me.
I know what you are thinking, but it really did. You might
think I was dreaming, but I never dream, and anyway, dreams aren’t like that.
It was so bright I could barely see it’s features, I’ve no
idea if it was male or female or something else but it was beautiful like a
forest fire, the most bizarre mixture of serenity and heart stopping terror.
The angel told me that she would call me, but that I must
not answer, for if the beautiful damsel I met earlier fell in love and settled
down with me, she wouldn’t go on to fulfil her potential.
I scoffed at that, despite being fairly awestruck, and I told
it that I would always support her, always encourage her.
He told me then that if she stayed single she would go on to
discover cures for many different diseases, a whole new way of looking at genes
and DNA, understanding of the human body. If she met me we would have the
triplets followed closely by the twins, and be a nobody.
I have never seen an angel since.
You might think I made the wrong choice, but it doesn’t feel
wrong. My wife loves the kids, loves being a mum. She might be a nobody, but
she is a happy nobody.
I do feel the odd twinge of guilt when I see people dying
from disease on the news, but our eldest daughter seems to have inherited her
mother’s brains, I’m sure she will go on to do great things. I can’t look at my
kids and say they shouldn’t be there.
Love makes the world go round, they say. You may say I am selfish, but I say
love conquers all.
November 27, 2012
Empty
I have been empty for ages, all
alone. No happy family giving e comfort and company. Just the damp and the ever
dripping tap and the echo of a clock long gone.
How I wish I was not a damp dank apartment,
but a spacious house. They would fix me up then, re-plaster my walls, bring me
to life with their love, and return me my soul.
I’d have a proud front lawn and
children would run down my halls. Teenagers would sob in the bedrooms, and play
music and slam doors. Mum and Dad would play happy families, kissing on the
doorstep for the neighbours while unpaid bills overstuff my kitchen drawers.
There would be gossip and intrigue and murmurs of “if walls could talk” and
smugly I’d sit and think “Ah but we listen”.
I wish I were a house instead of
an apartment. Or even just a better apartment, it isn’t my fault, it is my
views. Well I can’t help my natural aspects can I? I didn’t ask to be built
next to the fish packing factory and the
local prison.
I hear some apartments have nice
fireplaces, to hang stockings from and put trinkets on, instead of a hole where
the invading gasmen condemned a leaky gas fire and ripped it all out. The shame.
The humiliation. The nakedness of that
hole, so gaping and exposed. That was when I knew I was spoiled, that no-one
would play out their life in me again.
While it was just the crumbling
plaster and the half pulled down wallpaper, I still had hope. Perhaps he man
who lived in e would take care of me one day, or move on so that someone who
could look after me would move in. He moved out long ago now, and no one else
has replaced him. Only the ivy wants to be inside me.
I don’t mean to moan and groan at
night , nor bang my pipes so loud. I try to be warm and welcoming. Not that
there is anyone to welcome anymore. Not since they tramped in in their big
boots, ripping up my carpets with no regard for my dignity, exposing my damp
and my woodworm.
I remember people who lavished
care on me, painting and repainting walls to cover damp stains, laughing here,
loving here, crying here. Giving me something to watch. All of them left me, moved
on as soon as their hopes and dreams and families and bank balances grew too
large for me. Even the squirrel that came in the winter visits me no more.
I wish I was a house, instead of
an apartment.
October 31, 2012
On Samhain Night
On Samhain night the children play
At night’s dark beasts and creatures fey
Whose world is but a breath away.
On Samhain night the shadows build
Thick with souls that
life has killed
The living pass by swift, and chilled.
On Samhain night the dark feels close
The demonic lord and his hosts
Are feared this night more than most.
But the real time Samhain’s beasts come to play
Is when you feel safe and secure in the light of day.
October 20, 2012
Strange Love has a makeover
I don't normally do this kind of post here, but I was so excited I had to share this with you :~)
Some time ago now I found myself in a position to be able to create a beautiful version of Strange Love - the stories laid out how they should have been, if not for my lack of technological knowledge and the use of cookie cutter templates.
when it finally went live I couldn't wait to see my beautiful version up on Amazon, so that casual browsers would see the beauty within when they clicked the "read preview" link. Alas it was not to be so, amazon shows only the plain text version, it seems, despite that version no longer being for sale.
Nevertheless, Strange love has had it's makeover, and you can still have a sneek peek.
The ever tireless @tiredpixel has not only lovingly crafted a beautiful book out of my words, he has created a little showcase of it too. I urge you most mightily to take a look: http://t.co/nrAMCbBP
Some time ago now I found myself in a position to be able to create a beautiful version of Strange Love - the stories laid out how they should have been, if not for my lack of technological knowledge and the use of cookie cutter templates.
when it finally went live I couldn't wait to see my beautiful version up on Amazon, so that casual browsers would see the beauty within when they clicked the "read preview" link. Alas it was not to be so, amazon shows only the plain text version, it seems, despite that version no longer being for sale.
Nevertheless, Strange love has had it's makeover, and you can still have a sneek peek.
The ever tireless @tiredpixel has not only lovingly crafted a beautiful book out of my words, he has created a little showcase of it too. I urge you most mightily to take a look: http://t.co/nrAMCbBP
