Laura Besley's Blog, page 8
February 6, 2014
Friday Flash Fiction - Turning Tables
Turning Tables
‘Boy, how the tables have turned,’ Bas said, and took a long draught from his dark ale.
Martijn stubbed out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray on the worn oak table between them.
Bas put his glass down with a clunk. ‘It’s almost funny.’
‘It’s certainly not funny,’ Martijn said, raising his voice a little above normal.
‘I said almost.’
‘Whatever.’
‘In the beginning she couldn’t get enough of you, sent you ten messages a day and you had to rein her in, afraid your wife would find out.’
Martijn lit another cigarette.
‘Now, six months later you’re crying into your beer because she won’t see you anymore.’
‘I love her.’
‘Pff! Love! You don’t love her. You’re obsessed with her. With her youth, her beauty, her charisma. All the things you don’t have any more with your wife of fifteen years. You’re infatuated. You can’t maintain that level of involvement.’
Martijn blew out smoke through his nose. ‘It was never like this with Marie.’
‘Of course not. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But that could be a lie. You want to justify this somehow, but you can’t.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
I know she’ll never come back to you and even if she does, she won’t stay with you.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out again.’
‘I did say it from the beginning. No young, attractive, intelligent woman in her early twenties stays with a guy over forty for very long. Unless he’s filthy rich, and you’re not.’
‘What am I going to do?’ Martijn put his head in his hands. ‘I’ve lost everything now. Marie has kicked me out, won’t let me see the kids-’
‘Well, she can’t do that. You’ll have to get a lawyer.’
‘I know, I know. How did this happen?’
‘You couldn’t keep your dick in your trousers.’
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
Snippets is now available!
Amazon UK/Amazon US
Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated!
I've had two 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy.
"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)." Michael Diack
"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey
‘Boy, how the tables have turned,’ Bas said, and took a long draught from his dark ale.
Martijn stubbed out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray on the worn oak table between them.
Bas put his glass down with a clunk. ‘It’s almost funny.’
‘It’s certainly not funny,’ Martijn said, raising his voice a little above normal.
‘I said almost.’
‘Whatever.’
‘In the beginning she couldn’t get enough of you, sent you ten messages a day and you had to rein her in, afraid your wife would find out.’
Martijn lit another cigarette.
‘Now, six months later you’re crying into your beer because she won’t see you anymore.’
‘I love her.’
‘Pff! Love! You don’t love her. You’re obsessed with her. With her youth, her beauty, her charisma. All the things you don’t have any more with your wife of fifteen years. You’re infatuated. You can’t maintain that level of involvement.’
Martijn blew out smoke through his nose. ‘It was never like this with Marie.’
‘Of course not. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But that could be a lie. You want to justify this somehow, but you can’t.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
I know she’ll never come back to you and even if she does, she won’t stay with you.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out again.’
‘I did say it from the beginning. No young, attractive, intelligent woman in her early twenties stays with a guy over forty for very long. Unless he’s filthy rich, and you’re not.’
‘What am I going to do?’ Martijn put his head in his hands. ‘I’ve lost everything now. Marie has kicked me out, won’t let me see the kids-’
‘Well, she can’t do that. You’ll have to get a lawyer.’
‘I know, I know. How did this happen?’
‘You couldn’t keep your dick in your trousers.’
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
Snippets is now available!
Amazon UK/Amazon US
Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated!
I've had two 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy.
"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)." Michael Diack
"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey
February 2, 2014
My first flash fiction collection available now!
Today I'm releasing my first flash fiction collection, Snippets, as an amazon e-book.
Here are the links:
- Amazon UK
- Amazon US
I'd really appreciate it if you could help spread the word on facebook, twitter, etc. and if you fancy downloading it, I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.
Here's the description:
Murder, a drug addict, an arranged marriage, a groom on his wedding day, an old couple on a day out: this collection of flash fiction traverses twenty-one lives, giving snippets of their relationships , their highs and lows, their struggles and successes.
These pieces have previously been published online under the title of 'Flash Fortnightly'.
Here are the links:
- Amazon UK
- Amazon US
I'd really appreciate it if you could help spread the word on facebook, twitter, etc. and if you fancy downloading it, I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.
Here's the description:
Murder, a drug addict, an arranged marriage, a groom on his wedding day, an old couple on a day out: this collection of flash fiction traverses twenty-one lives, giving snippets of their relationships , their highs and lows, their struggles and successes.
These pieces have previously been published online under the title of 'Flash Fortnightly'.
January 30, 2014
Friday Flash Fiction - The Miracle of Life
The Miracle of Life
The girl rested her head against the glass pane and stared absentmindedly at the rows of newborns in their glass containers. Some were smaller than others, some dark, some light, some red. A few were crying, others were still. A couple of them had scrunched up their little hands, others scrunched up their faces. The one common denominator was that they all looked like creatures from another world to the girl, not like smaller versions of herself and the other mothers in the hospital.
A woman walked up to the girl, slowly with shuffling steps. She spoke in a whisper, ‘Which one’s yours?’
The girl looked up, focusing on one in particular with a red face and kicking legs. ‘That one there,’ she nodded, pointing slightly with her fingers bent.
‘Have you chosen a name?’
‘Rose.’
The labour had been long, each hour crashing into the next. She could hear the memories of her mother’s screams and her father’s silence echoing off the walls of the delivery room. Each voice of a nurse or doctor seemed like an attack, a hidden criticism, containing, reaffirming, the sentiments of her parents. Each noise a wail which made the girl wince. And for what? A miracle?
‘Mine’s at the back,’ the woman said. ‘I thought I was going to lose him. Thank god for modern medicine, eh?’ She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Spose.’
‘I can take him home in a few days. Can’t wait. How about you?’
Not sure. A miracle? If you gave that miracle away, what did that make you? A miracle-giver? Or utterly desolate?
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
Snippets will be available from Monday 3rd February!
This is my first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps. I will be offering it as an e-book on amazon. I would be very grateful if you could help me to promote it on Monday (or any day thereafter), either on your blog, facebook page, twitter account or any way possible! Many thanks in advance.
The girl rested her head against the glass pane and stared absentmindedly at the rows of newborns in their glass containers. Some were smaller than others, some dark, some light, some red. A few were crying, others were still. A couple of them had scrunched up their little hands, others scrunched up their faces. The one common denominator was that they all looked like creatures from another world to the girl, not like smaller versions of herself and the other mothers in the hospital.
A woman walked up to the girl, slowly with shuffling steps. She spoke in a whisper, ‘Which one’s yours?’
The girl looked up, focusing on one in particular with a red face and kicking legs. ‘That one there,’ she nodded, pointing slightly with her fingers bent.
‘Have you chosen a name?’
‘Rose.’
The labour had been long, each hour crashing into the next. She could hear the memories of her mother’s screams and her father’s silence echoing off the walls of the delivery room. Each voice of a nurse or doctor seemed like an attack, a hidden criticism, containing, reaffirming, the sentiments of her parents. Each noise a wail which made the girl wince. And for what? A miracle?
‘Mine’s at the back,’ the woman said. ‘I thought I was going to lose him. Thank god for modern medicine, eh?’ She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Spose.’
‘I can take him home in a few days. Can’t wait. How about you?’
Not sure. A miracle? If you gave that miracle away, what did that make you? A miracle-giver? Or utterly desolate?
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
Snippets will be available from Monday 3rd February!
This is my first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps. I will be offering it as an e-book on amazon. I would be very grateful if you could help me to promote it on Monday (or any day thereafter), either on your blog, facebook page, twitter account or any way possible! Many thanks in advance.
January 23, 2014
Friday Flash Fiction - A New Home
A New Home
I don’t like it here.
Mummy says this is our new home and we’re staying, but I don’t like it. It smells funny, not like our old house. I used to have my own room and now I have to share with my brother, Dan. We have new beds called bunker beds. I don’t like bunker beds because when Dan moves I can hear the bed creaking and I’m scared he’s going to come crashing down on top of me. I asked Mummy if I could sleep on top, but she said it was too high and I might fall out. Dan’s only one year older than me, it’s not fair he gets to sleep on the top. I find Bertie buried under my Angry Birds duvet and squeeze him a little to let him know I’m awake. He’s awake now too. I whisper to him that I don’t like it here and he agrees. He always agrees with me. He has fuzzy green hair and big black eyes.
I’m thirsty, so I take Bertie in one hand and inch slowly down the dark corridor. I can see light from under the living room door, so I know Mummy is watching TV. I hear the strange voices getting louder and louder.
…A new campaign has been launched today by animal rights activists who have been protesting against this barbaric practice for many years. Some viewers may find the following images disturbing.
Just as I push the door to the new living room open, I see on the TV a whale being sliced open and all the blood and guts spill out of it. I drop Bertie and scream. ‘Matthew,’ Mummy says, jumping off the sofa and putting her arms around me. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’ ‘I couldn’t sleep. I really don’t like the new bunker beds.’ ‘They’re called bunk beds. A bunker is…something else. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get used to it.’ I look at the TV again. Mummy walks over and turns it off. ‘And I’m thirsty.’ ‘I’ll go heat you some milk.’ ‘With chocolate in it?’‘No, Matty, it’s too late for hot chocolate.’ ‘But Daddy-’Mummy does a sigh. ‘Daddy’s not here, is he?’‘Is it because he’s living with Auntie Sharon?’‘That woman is not your auntie. She’s, well, let’s not go into that now.’ I know I’m going to cry and don’t want to. Instead I look for Bertie, but can’t find him and that makes me want to cry even more. ‘I can’t find Bertie.’ ‘Your tennis ball?’‘Bertie’s not a tennis ball. He’s Bertie.’ Look, there he is.’ Mummy points to a wall in the living room where Bertie is lying facing the wall. ‘Bertie!’ I race over and pick him up. Mummy takes my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s go get you some hot milk.’ ‘Okay,’ I say, and slowly follow her into the kitchen.
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
It's taken me a little while to get going this January, but hopefully this will be the start of regular blogging again. This piece was written for a competition and had to include the words: bunker, animal rights and tennis ball. Unfortunately it didn't get very far in the competition.
My first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps, will be available soon. Here's a sneaky peak at the front cover...
I don’t like it here.
Mummy says this is our new home and we’re staying, but I don’t like it. It smells funny, not like our old house. I used to have my own room and now I have to share with my brother, Dan. We have new beds called bunker beds. I don’t like bunker beds because when Dan moves I can hear the bed creaking and I’m scared he’s going to come crashing down on top of me. I asked Mummy if I could sleep on top, but she said it was too high and I might fall out. Dan’s only one year older than me, it’s not fair he gets to sleep on the top. I find Bertie buried under my Angry Birds duvet and squeeze him a little to let him know I’m awake. He’s awake now too. I whisper to him that I don’t like it here and he agrees. He always agrees with me. He has fuzzy green hair and big black eyes.
I’m thirsty, so I take Bertie in one hand and inch slowly down the dark corridor. I can see light from under the living room door, so I know Mummy is watching TV. I hear the strange voices getting louder and louder.
…A new campaign has been launched today by animal rights activists who have been protesting against this barbaric practice for many years. Some viewers may find the following images disturbing.
Just as I push the door to the new living room open, I see on the TV a whale being sliced open and all the blood and guts spill out of it. I drop Bertie and scream. ‘Matthew,’ Mummy says, jumping off the sofa and putting her arms around me. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’ ‘I couldn’t sleep. I really don’t like the new bunker beds.’ ‘They’re called bunk beds. A bunker is…something else. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get used to it.’ I look at the TV again. Mummy walks over and turns it off. ‘And I’m thirsty.’ ‘I’ll go heat you some milk.’ ‘With chocolate in it?’‘No, Matty, it’s too late for hot chocolate.’ ‘But Daddy-’Mummy does a sigh. ‘Daddy’s not here, is he?’‘Is it because he’s living with Auntie Sharon?’‘That woman is not your auntie. She’s, well, let’s not go into that now.’ I know I’m going to cry and don’t want to. Instead I look for Bertie, but can’t find him and that makes me want to cry even more. ‘I can’t find Bertie.’ ‘Your tennis ball?’‘Bertie’s not a tennis ball. He’s Bertie.’ Look, there he is.’ Mummy points to a wall in the living room where Bertie is lying facing the wall. ‘Bertie!’ I race over and pick him up. Mummy takes my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s go get you some hot milk.’ ‘Okay,’ I say, and slowly follow her into the kitchen.
©2014 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
It's taken me a little while to get going this January, but hopefully this will be the start of regular blogging again. This piece was written for a competition and had to include the words: bunker, animal rights and tennis ball. Unfortunately it didn't get very far in the competition.
My first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps, will be available soon. Here's a sneaky peak at the front cover...
January 21, 2014
What's the Point of NaNoWriMo?
This is an article I wrote for Friday Flash and they have kindly allowed me to re-blog it on my own blog. If you're interested in more articles about writing, flash fiction, or would like to connect with some fellow writers, please go to their website. Thank you to Friday Flash for hosting me! What’s the Point of NaNoWriMo?January 16, 2014 in Guest post, NaNoWriMo, Thursday Writing, Writers by Laura BesleyTo win NaNoWriMo all you need to do is write 1,666 words per day, every day for the 30 days in November. That doesn’t sound too hard, does it?Stephen King writes ten pages per day, which amounts to roughly 2,000 words (Stephen King,On Writing, p.176) every day, averaging 60,000 words per month. Keeping up that momentum, you could quite easily write a first draft in two to three months. But is that pace realistic, especially for writers who don’t write full-time? Does the NaNoWriMo challenge make you a better writer, or is it just an exercise of willpower?I understand – reading between the lines of forums and emails – that I had a fairly typical NaNo experience: good first week, dreadful second week, slightly better third week and bumper fourth week. I even finished with a couple of days to spare and by the end was writing 4,000-5,000 words per day. But did I keep the momentum going? Nope. This is almost the first thing I’ve written since, and it’s almost mid-December (at the time of submitting this article). I find myself wondering whether it’s worth having a mega month if it’s going to be followed by an appalling one.Many people have asked me what I have done with my “book”. Well…nothing, so far. My frantically typed 50,095 words are nowhere near up to scratch and will need heavy editing. Della Galton writes in her blog post NaNoWriMo So Far that she also finds time in November to edit, polish and submit her work. By December 3rd she had already sold her second NaNoWriMo story. This level of achievement is but a mere dream for the average NaNo writer. I will be reopening my document with a fair amount of trepidation in the hope that some of it is usable.But has doing the NaNoWriMo challenge made me a better writer? I don’t think so. I usually write my first draft by hand, and when I type it up a week or so later, I edit it into a second draft. I definitely didn’t have time to do that with NaNo. Many writers, especially ones starting out, have full-time jobs, maybe families, to whom even squeezing in an hour a day can seem impossible.The main lesson I learned was something I already knew: to be a writer takes time and dedication.
December 19, 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - The Mysterious Christmas Card
The Mysterious Christmas Card
Every year when I get the boxes of decorations down from the loft I wonder about the mysterious Christmas card that arrives addressed to a woman called Mavis Lockheart. I’ve tried my very best over the years to find out who Mavis Lockheart is, but no one has ever heard of her. She wasn’t the previous owner, or the one before that, and I even went so far one year to ask all the elderly neighbours whether they could remember anyone who had lived here by that name. The answer was a big fat no and the mystery continues.
There was no return address, so the first year I left the large envelope with loopy handwriting unopened on the little table in the hallway, where the downstairs telephone, the pot for keys and various other odds and ends are, in the hope that someone would come to claim it. It sat there for the weeks running up to Christmas and well into the new year. By the end of January I realized that no one was going to come and claim it, so I stashed it away with all my other correspondence.
The second year I did the same, but by the third year my curiosity was getting the better of me and I could no longer leave that envelope unopened. I slid my silver letter opener under the flap of the envelope like a thief in the night and in one clean sweep it was open. Afterwards I wondered whether I should have used steam from the kettle like you see them doing on the television, but we’re all wise in hindsight, aren’t we? For weeks I was worried that Mavis Lockheart would come to claim it and I would have to admit to my crime. There was a short message from a Dorothy, enquiring about Mavis, her black and white pet cat and her brother Arnold. Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, was still working, but hoping to retire in the next couple of years. I had been right: it was an older woman. I had guessed as much by the handwriting and had suspected that Mavis was a woman of around the same age. I asked around the neighbours again, this time asking about the brother Arnold as well. Mr. Peterson, at the far end of the road, thought that something rang a bell, but he couldn’t put a finger on what. ‘I’ve got such a terrible memory, these days,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s no grain of truth in what I’ve just said at all.’
But no one came to claim it that year, the year after or any year for that matter.
Every year when I take down the Christmas decorations – by January 6th, of course – I take Mavis Lockheart’s card and stow it away, wrapping it up with a Christmas ribbon along with the all the others. My husband tells me I’m overly sentimental, not to mention silly, keeping them. Over the years I’ve learned that Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, has passed away and now she lives alone. I can only begin to wonder at Mavis’ life. I really wish I could get in touch with either of them as in some respects they have come to feel almost like friends. But the most likely case is that these Christmas cards, along with their lives, will always remain a mystery.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
This is the first of my NaNoWriMo_2013 pieces to see the light of day. It was inspired by a friend's post on facebook; she had received a Christmas card addressed to someone and she didn't know who it was.
This will be my last post of 2013, so I'd like to wish you all happy holidays and all the best for 2014.
Every year when I get the boxes of decorations down from the loft I wonder about the mysterious Christmas card that arrives addressed to a woman called Mavis Lockheart. I’ve tried my very best over the years to find out who Mavis Lockheart is, but no one has ever heard of her. She wasn’t the previous owner, or the one before that, and I even went so far one year to ask all the elderly neighbours whether they could remember anyone who had lived here by that name. The answer was a big fat no and the mystery continues.
There was no return address, so the first year I left the large envelope with loopy handwriting unopened on the little table in the hallway, where the downstairs telephone, the pot for keys and various other odds and ends are, in the hope that someone would come to claim it. It sat there for the weeks running up to Christmas and well into the new year. By the end of January I realized that no one was going to come and claim it, so I stashed it away with all my other correspondence.
The second year I did the same, but by the third year my curiosity was getting the better of me and I could no longer leave that envelope unopened. I slid my silver letter opener under the flap of the envelope like a thief in the night and in one clean sweep it was open. Afterwards I wondered whether I should have used steam from the kettle like you see them doing on the television, but we’re all wise in hindsight, aren’t we? For weeks I was worried that Mavis Lockheart would come to claim it and I would have to admit to my crime. There was a short message from a Dorothy, enquiring about Mavis, her black and white pet cat and her brother Arnold. Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, was still working, but hoping to retire in the next couple of years. I had been right: it was an older woman. I had guessed as much by the handwriting and had suspected that Mavis was a woman of around the same age. I asked around the neighbours again, this time asking about the brother Arnold as well. Mr. Peterson, at the far end of the road, thought that something rang a bell, but he couldn’t put a finger on what. ‘I’ve got such a terrible memory, these days,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s no grain of truth in what I’ve just said at all.’
But no one came to claim it that year, the year after or any year for that matter.
Every year when I take down the Christmas decorations – by January 6th, of course – I take Mavis Lockheart’s card and stow it away, wrapping it up with a Christmas ribbon along with the all the others. My husband tells me I’m overly sentimental, not to mention silly, keeping them. Over the years I’ve learned that Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, has passed away and now she lives alone. I can only begin to wonder at Mavis’ life. I really wish I could get in touch with either of them as in some respects they have come to feel almost like friends. But the most likely case is that these Christmas cards, along with their lives, will always remain a mystery.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
This is the first of my NaNoWriMo_2013 pieces to see the light of day. It was inspired by a friend's post on facebook; she had received a Christmas card addressed to someone and she didn't know who it was.
This will be my last post of 2013, so I'd like to wish you all happy holidays and all the best for 2014.
December 12, 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Another Christmas Abroad
Another Christmas Abroad
Daisy could never have predicted how many Christmases she would be away from home when she booked her first flights to New Zealand on the old computer in her dad's study. The plan was to do some fruit picking, possibly work in a vineyard or two, a ski season in Queenstown and then home via Asia, taking in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and wherever else she still had the funds for.
She had had her arguments lined up like soldiers ready for battle, but to her utter surprise her parents were all for it. Go, they said. Enjoy yourself. You're only young once. With a backpack big enough to hold a small person in, they waved her off at London Heathrow two days after her twenty-third birthday.
***Daisy sighed as she opened the small box of Christmas decorations she had accumulated over the years. Her mother had at least three times as much and still insisted on getting a real tree. Stu had bought them an artificial one, with the lights already woven into it, the first Christmas they spent together in their small Auckland house. Every year she pulled it out from under their double bed and decorated it, sipping mulled wine despite the outside temperature being around twenty degrees Celsius.
She had met Stu in Queenstown six weeks before she was due to leave. She had been working as a ski instructor when she fell and pulled something that caused an excruciating pain in her back. He was also working the slopes that winter, and was finishing his physiotherapy degree the following year. Daisy went back to Auckland with him and never left.
***This time of year she missed England the most. Cold days, long dark evenings, candles, roasted vegetables, mulled wine, hot chocolate, Christmas telly. But she had Stu, who she loved, and her little girl, Skylar. As long as they were here, this would be her home.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
I wanted to write a piece on the theme of Christmas and as an expat living abroad (and not going home for Christmas this year...boo hoo), this is what I came up with.
Daisy could never have predicted how many Christmases she would be away from home when she booked her first flights to New Zealand on the old computer in her dad's study. The plan was to do some fruit picking, possibly work in a vineyard or two, a ski season in Queenstown and then home via Asia, taking in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and wherever else she still had the funds for.
She had had her arguments lined up like soldiers ready for battle, but to her utter surprise her parents were all for it. Go, they said. Enjoy yourself. You're only young once. With a backpack big enough to hold a small person in, they waved her off at London Heathrow two days after her twenty-third birthday.
***Daisy sighed as she opened the small box of Christmas decorations she had accumulated over the years. Her mother had at least three times as much and still insisted on getting a real tree. Stu had bought them an artificial one, with the lights already woven into it, the first Christmas they spent together in their small Auckland house. Every year she pulled it out from under their double bed and decorated it, sipping mulled wine despite the outside temperature being around twenty degrees Celsius.
She had met Stu in Queenstown six weeks before she was due to leave. She had been working as a ski instructor when she fell and pulled something that caused an excruciating pain in her back. He was also working the slopes that winter, and was finishing his physiotherapy degree the following year. Daisy went back to Auckland with him and never left.
***This time of year she missed England the most. Cold days, long dark evenings, candles, roasted vegetables, mulled wine, hot chocolate, Christmas telly. But she had Stu, who she loved, and her little girl, Skylar. As long as they were here, this would be her home.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
I wanted to write a piece on the theme of Christmas and as an expat living abroad (and not going home for Christmas this year...boo hoo), this is what I came up with.
December 11, 2013
Floating Petals by Leela Devi Panikar
About the Book
Title: Floating Petals
Author: Leela Devi Panikar
Publication: NanaDon, 2007
Summary: Collection of fourteen short stories.
What I Think
I reread Floating Petals in order to write this review and enjoyed it just as much the second time as I had done the first. The story which shares its name with the title of the book remains my favourite. 'Floating Petals' is about Ma-Ling, an older Chinese woman, who refuses to have her feet amputated despite warning from the doctor that the gangrene may kill her.
The last scent of blossoms was still in the air. She was five when her mother and the servants gathered around her on the east terrace, close to the Kwan Yin altar. On the altar, among the offerings of dumplings, fruit and flowers, joss sticks and candles, was a very special item - a pair of hand-embroidered red satin shoes. (p.10)
Leela Devi Panikar is a gifted storyteller with the ability to create and transport us into different worlds, whether they be other countries, other relationships or even other realities. She does this with apparent ease as her prose flows gently and beautifully. Some of her stories are sad, some are humourous, but what they have in common is that they are all deeply human - even 'Moon' which is based around the moon travelling to the earth - and evoke strong emotions.
I would highly recommend this to any lover of stories, short or long.
About the Author
Leela Devi Panikar is a fiction writer and author of two published short story collections: Floating Petals and Bathing Elephants. After twelve years of writing it is still a surprise to her that I she is writer. She comes from a business background and has owned and operated businesses in several countries and in Hong Kong: boutiques, antique shops, and pub/restaurants. She has travelled a great deal and has lived in Penang, Malaysia; Wales; and Vietnam. Currently she lives in Hong Kong.
Title: Floating Petals
Author: Leela Devi Panikar
Publication: NanaDon, 2007
Summary: Collection of fourteen short stories.
What I Think
I reread Floating Petals in order to write this review and enjoyed it just as much the second time as I had done the first. The story which shares its name with the title of the book remains my favourite. 'Floating Petals' is about Ma-Ling, an older Chinese woman, who refuses to have her feet amputated despite warning from the doctor that the gangrene may kill her.
The last scent of blossoms was still in the air. She was five when her mother and the servants gathered around her on the east terrace, close to the Kwan Yin altar. On the altar, among the offerings of dumplings, fruit and flowers, joss sticks and candles, was a very special item - a pair of hand-embroidered red satin shoes. (p.10)
Leela Devi Panikar is a gifted storyteller with the ability to create and transport us into different worlds, whether they be other countries, other relationships or even other realities. She does this with apparent ease as her prose flows gently and beautifully. Some of her stories are sad, some are humourous, but what they have in common is that they are all deeply human - even 'Moon' which is based around the moon travelling to the earth - and evoke strong emotions.
I would highly recommend this to any lover of stories, short or long.
About the Author
Leela Devi Panikar is a fiction writer and author of two published short story collections: Floating Petals and Bathing Elephants. After twelve years of writing it is still a surprise to her that I she is writer. She comes from a business background and has owned and operated businesses in several countries and in Hong Kong: boutiques, antique shops, and pub/restaurants. She has travelled a great deal and has lived in Penang, Malaysia; Wales; and Vietnam. Currently she lives in Hong Kong.
December 9, 2013
Leela Devi Panikar - author interview
I am extremely excited to welcome Leela Devi Panikar to my blog today. I read, and was impressed with Floating Petals, so impressed in fact that I approached Leela with some interview questions and she very kindly answered them for me. I hope you enjoy learning more about this fascinating author and I will be publishing a full review of her book on Wednesday 11th December 2013.
1. Tell us a little bit about yourself
I am a fiction writer and author of two published short story collections: Floating Petals and Bathing Elephants. After twelve years of writing it is still a surprise to me that I am a writer. I come from a business background and have owned and operated businesses in several countries and in Hong Kong: boutiques, antique shops, and pub/restaurants. I have travelled a great deal and have lived in Penang, Malaysia; Wales; and Vietnam. Hong Kong is my home now.
2. Can you give us some background information about the stories within the collection Floating Petals?
Floating Petals was fun to write. I was like a child to writing. The collection is simple and is an easy read, but the stories are thought provoking. The first story, “A Piece of Bread,” is about a child’s longing to attend school so she can read but her first day proves a disappointment. The inspiration for “Homeless Sparrow” came to me when a very large tree near a Kowloon car park was cut down to make way for an MTR extension. It tells of a bird’s search for a new home. We carelessly destroy the homes of millions of birds to make space for humans. “My Gods” shows the beauty of tolerance in a simple and cosmopolitan village. “Green” is absolute fear due to misunderstanding. “At the Railway” holds an amusing memory: it was inspired by the interesting contrast of me travelling with Gucci suitcases and a very efficient barefooted porter in a smartly pressed khaki uniform carrying my heavy cases on his head at a train station in Madras.
3. Why do you favour short story writing over novel writing?
Short stories give me a feeling of accomplishment in a very short time. To me a short story is like a postcard, and a certain jewel-like perfection is required to tell a story within such a confined framework. It’s a work of distillation and I like the challenge that it poses. Before Floating Petals was published I had already written two novels, both yet to be published, and I was writing one of the novels at the same time I was writing the stories in Floating Petals. Short stories were a break for me – they energise me, enhance my creativity. Ideas come bounding up and they require special care to develop smoothly and I enjoy the discipline of restraint. There is no time to ramble, to bring in many characters and scenes, to use a lot of adjectives and adverbs. Depth, knowledge and feeling are condensed.
4. Your book Floating Petals takes its name from the title of the second story about a Chinese woman who is suffering from the consequences of bound feet. Is there a particular reason for choosing that to be the title?
Small feet in delicately embroidered silk shoes were called floating petals in ancient China. This admiration for small feet gave rise to the custom of bound feet. I enjoy writing love stories: love not just between man and woman but among different people and in different relationships, and even amongst animals, as in the “The Homeless Sparrow” where the old male sparrow gives the young sparrow a home. When visiting someone in hospital I saw an elderly lady with very small exposed feet and I was inspired by the serene look on her face. I imagined her past and the pain she endured as a child to fulfil her hopes for love in the future. So it was for love and for the smallness of short stories in general that I chose this title to represent the entire collection.
5. The introductory story, “Penang,” won the ‘BBC World “My Hometown” 200-word writing competition.’ Tell us about that.
It was the first time I had the courage to enter a contest. As it was to be only 200 words I was comfortable writing it. I did not know I was selected as a winner until a friend in Australia, from whom I had not heard in more than 6 years called me. She was listening to BBC radio while cleaning her bathroom. She said she heard I had won the BBC international short story competition. I was more than shocked. Soon after, when it was noon in Hong Kong, the BBC called me to stand by for a short radio interview.
6. Your stories are extremely varied. Has moving around the world enhanced your creative writing?
Yes, travelling does enhance writing. I have travelled a great deal, lived in four different countries, and in particular I love village life. This has widened my knowledge and given me the ability to see my characters in different situations.
7. Moving on from Floating Petals, what are you working on at the moment?
I am working on my third collection A Phantom Visitor and just about completing a novel, White Hibiscus, about a young girl growing up in a traditional Indian home in Malaysia and yearning to be independent. She leaves her home and goes overseas only to realise that everything she sought existed at home, she did not have to go overseas for it. I have been working on this novel off and on for a long time. I also write travel essays and blog about random slices of life.
8. How do you write?
I write in waves that match my moods. I do weeks of frantic writing, and then I drop off and pursue other interests. I enjoy reading and photography. I used to paint and I mention it here in the hope that it may get me to go back to it. I seldom watch TV except for news. Coffee-shop writing has currently become chic since JK Rowling first wrote in one, but then her alternative was a small heatless room. I enjoy absolute quiet at home, sometimes with quiet sitar music in the background.
9. What or who influences your writing or inspires you to write?
No one person or author or writing influences me but I do get a lot of encouragement from my partner Don (which sometimes borders on nagging, which I need). I also get much encouragement from my friends, and some people who have bought my books ask me when they can read the next one. That is a good feeling. Inspiration can strike me at any time – an image, a word, a place or a piece of music. I am never short of inspiration but only of time. I do have to try and squeeze 48 hours into 24.
10. Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?
I do, indeed. I know several writer friends who worry about what market they should write for. I don’t believe in “writing what sells.” I don’t ask Who am I writing for? but Why am I writing? What is it that affects me passionately?
The best work comes from your heart, writing about something you want to share. And you use that emotion to just start. I am always amazed at how little I begin with and how, as I write, my pen and my keyboard take over. So much I did not know I knew flows out of me.
Often research is needed once you start writing. When you’re writing about something you think you already know, you’ll find questions arise about the details. Even with short stories I spend a great deal of time doing research, looking for accuracy of facts and those small rough diamonds worth cutting and polishing to enhance the story.
Start writing, don’t just talk about it, do it.
1. Tell us a little bit about yourself
I am a fiction writer and author of two published short story collections: Floating Petals and Bathing Elephants. After twelve years of writing it is still a surprise to me that I am a writer. I come from a business background and have owned and operated businesses in several countries and in Hong Kong: boutiques, antique shops, and pub/restaurants. I have travelled a great deal and have lived in Penang, Malaysia; Wales; and Vietnam. Hong Kong is my home now. 2. Can you give us some background information about the stories within the collection Floating Petals?
Floating Petals was fun to write. I was like a child to writing. The collection is simple and is an easy read, but the stories are thought provoking. The first story, “A Piece of Bread,” is about a child’s longing to attend school so she can read but her first day proves a disappointment. The inspiration for “Homeless Sparrow” came to me when a very large tree near a Kowloon car park was cut down to make way for an MTR extension. It tells of a bird’s search for a new home. We carelessly destroy the homes of millions of birds to make space for humans. “My Gods” shows the beauty of tolerance in a simple and cosmopolitan village. “Green” is absolute fear due to misunderstanding. “At the Railway” holds an amusing memory: it was inspired by the interesting contrast of me travelling with Gucci suitcases and a very efficient barefooted porter in a smartly pressed khaki uniform carrying my heavy cases on his head at a train station in Madras.
3. Why do you favour short story writing over novel writing?
Short stories give me a feeling of accomplishment in a very short time. To me a short story is like a postcard, and a certain jewel-like perfection is required to tell a story within such a confined framework. It’s a work of distillation and I like the challenge that it poses. Before Floating Petals was published I had already written two novels, both yet to be published, and I was writing one of the novels at the same time I was writing the stories in Floating Petals. Short stories were a break for me – they energise me, enhance my creativity. Ideas come bounding up and they require special care to develop smoothly and I enjoy the discipline of restraint. There is no time to ramble, to bring in many characters and scenes, to use a lot of adjectives and adverbs. Depth, knowledge and feeling are condensed.
4. Your book Floating Petals takes its name from the title of the second story about a Chinese woman who is suffering from the consequences of bound feet. Is there a particular reason for choosing that to be the title?
Small feet in delicately embroidered silk shoes were called floating petals in ancient China. This admiration for small feet gave rise to the custom of bound feet. I enjoy writing love stories: love not just between man and woman but among different people and in different relationships, and even amongst animals, as in the “The Homeless Sparrow” where the old male sparrow gives the young sparrow a home. When visiting someone in hospital I saw an elderly lady with very small exposed feet and I was inspired by the serene look on her face. I imagined her past and the pain she endured as a child to fulfil her hopes for love in the future. So it was for love and for the smallness of short stories in general that I chose this title to represent the entire collection. 5. The introductory story, “Penang,” won the ‘BBC World “My Hometown” 200-word writing competition.’ Tell us about that.
It was the first time I had the courage to enter a contest. As it was to be only 200 words I was comfortable writing it. I did not know I was selected as a winner until a friend in Australia, from whom I had not heard in more than 6 years called me. She was listening to BBC radio while cleaning her bathroom. She said she heard I had won the BBC international short story competition. I was more than shocked. Soon after, when it was noon in Hong Kong, the BBC called me to stand by for a short radio interview.
6. Your stories are extremely varied. Has moving around the world enhanced your creative writing?
Yes, travelling does enhance writing. I have travelled a great deal, lived in four different countries, and in particular I love village life. This has widened my knowledge and given me the ability to see my characters in different situations.
7. Moving on from Floating Petals, what are you working on at the moment?
I am working on my third collection A Phantom Visitor and just about completing a novel, White Hibiscus, about a young girl growing up in a traditional Indian home in Malaysia and yearning to be independent. She leaves her home and goes overseas only to realise that everything she sought existed at home, she did not have to go overseas for it. I have been working on this novel off and on for a long time. I also write travel essays and blog about random slices of life.
8. How do you write?
I write in waves that match my moods. I do weeks of frantic writing, and then I drop off and pursue other interests. I enjoy reading and photography. I used to paint and I mention it here in the hope that it may get me to go back to it. I seldom watch TV except for news. Coffee-shop writing has currently become chic since JK Rowling first wrote in one, but then her alternative was a small heatless room. I enjoy absolute quiet at home, sometimes with quiet sitar music in the background.
9. What or who influences your writing or inspires you to write?
No one person or author or writing influences me but I do get a lot of encouragement from my partner Don (which sometimes borders on nagging, which I need). I also get much encouragement from my friends, and some people who have bought my books ask me when they can read the next one. That is a good feeling. Inspiration can strike me at any time – an image, a word, a place or a piece of music. I am never short of inspiration but only of time. I do have to try and squeeze 48 hours into 24.
10. Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?
I do, indeed. I know several writer friends who worry about what market they should write for. I don’t believe in “writing what sells.” I don’t ask Who am I writing for? but Why am I writing? What is it that affects me passionately?
The best work comes from your heart, writing about something you want to share. And you use that emotion to just start. I am always amazed at how little I begin with and how, as I write, my pen and my keyboard take over. So much I did not know I knew flows out of me.
Often research is needed once you start writing. When you’re writing about something you think you already know, you’ll find questions arise about the details. Even with short stories I spend a great deal of time doing research, looking for accuracy of facts and those small rough diamonds worth cutting and polishing to enhance the story.
Start writing, don’t just talk about it, do it.
December 5, 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Memories
Memories
She no longer really knows who I am. Every now and then I think I see a hint in her eyes, something behind the surface that makes me wonder whether there is a glint of recognition. It is so fleeting that milliseconds later, I doubt myself.
I know who she is though.
She is the woman I vowed to love and to hold in sickness and health till death us do part.
She is the woman whose hand I held through three long, painful labours.
She is the woman who pushed my wheelchair for six months when I needed a back operation after a car accident.
I know who she is.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
This piece was inspired by this photo. "A man teaches his girlfriend the alphabet after she lost her memory." For more heart-warming photos go to this website.
I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November.
This is the first week of December and NaNoWriMo is officially over. I'm happy to say that I managed to write 50,000 words! I've written about it here if you're interested in reading more.
She no longer really knows who I am. Every now and then I think I see a hint in her eyes, something behind the surface that makes me wonder whether there is a glint of recognition. It is so fleeting that milliseconds later, I doubt myself.
I know who she is though.
She is the woman I vowed to love and to hold in sickness and health till death us do part.
She is the woman whose hand I held through three long, painful labours.
She is the woman who pushed my wheelchair for six months when I needed a back operation after a car accident.
I know who she is.
©2013 Laura Besley
Flash Fiction Diary
This piece was inspired by this photo. "A man teaches his girlfriend the alphabet after she lost her memory." For more heart-warming photos go to this website.
I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November.
This is the first week of December and NaNoWriMo is officially over. I'm happy to say that I managed to write 50,000 words! I've written about it here if you're interested in reading more.
