Returned home from the annual Winchester Writers Conference yesterday to find a copy of the Hampshire View July edition in the post for me. Low and behold, a story I submitted well over a year ago has been published! ‘The Key‘ is the first short story I ever wrote and dates back a while so my writing has changed a hell of a lot since then but still great to see it in print! Thank you Hampshire View!
Tonight’s entry for the on-line comp! Usual formula – log on to the site at 5.30 to get three words or phrases – then 30 minutes to write and submit a story. I chose ‘The Interview’ and called my story Conversation with a Stranger – undoubtedly inspired by Mrs Q!
Conversation with a Stranger
‘So what makes you think you can do the job?’
He doesn’t say this out loud but I can see him thinking it. His eyes are round and blue and glossy like glazed rain drops. His gaze penetrating – unwavering – as he looks at me. I try to keep calm but feel the panic welling up inside me. Silence.
‘I know I can do this because I want it so much. You can rely on me – I wont let you down. I mean I’ve never done this before but I’m hard working, patient, good with people and I’m enthusiastic.’
He doesnt look impressed – turns his eyes to look at the woman in the pale blue dress wearing pumps. She smiles at me kindly and I decide to turn my attention to her.
‘I mean you have to let people find their own way don’t you? It’ll be fine once I get started.’
‘Is there anything else we need to know Sara? Did you have any questions?’
The woman looks at me enquiringly. She’s worried. Thinks I can’t do it. She looks at Ben again – his face impassive and flat like a creamy moon.
‘Do you think she can do it Ben?’ She asks seriously; her voice calm and measured; her words wafting over me like a soft breeze.
Ben looks at me and then at her but I get in early again – need to retain my dignity.
‘You know I can do it don’t you Ben? I know you haven’t known me long but you need to trust me. And once we get started and understand each other we’ll get along just fine.’
And then he cracks – smiles the biggest smile ever and I know I’ve nailed it. He extends a hand towards me and I note his beautifully manicured nails – so perfect. He is perfect. My new baby Ben safe in the arms of the mid wife. And I know I’ve got the job – First Time Mum!
Yes – to-day has been a landmark day. In the space of just ten minutes I a) reverse parked and b) drove at over 40 mph. For those of you that know me well you will understand just how special these achievements are.
Driving out to the New Forest this morning for an early morning walk I realised that part of the road to Lyndhurst was one of those nasty dual carriage ways and therefore required a faster speed than my normal maximum of 30mph. Yes dear readers at 7.15am with the road to myself I drove at 50mph! And it was as I approached this speed that I wondered if there was a special gear I should change up to. Was there such a thing as a fifth gear ? I was sure there was but where might it be located ? After some gear stick shuffling I managed to wedge the gear into a new, and hitherto unused, slot. Fifth gear had been found. And if that wasn’t enough for one day – arriving at the car park I decided to challenge both myself and the huddle of rancid looking horses around me, by attempting a reverse park. After some odd forward – reverse – forward – reverse type stuff, I managed to avoid the horses’ critical eyes and dangerous looking hooves and park up. Admittedly the car park was completely empty but I felt that I had achieved something rather special. Unlike my string of expletives aimed at the woman in the car behind me on the way back home who felt it necessary to take both hands off the wheel and hold them in the air as I tried to find out which lane to use for a roundabout. Come on lady – ease up – and get your hands back on the wheel. Anyway – I had a lovely walk and met several dog walkers, other lone ramblers and a man using a camera with a huge lens which he said was for bird watching. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
In terms of writing, I’m expanding and perfecting a story for the Havant Literary Festival based on the piece I wrote at Rob Richardson’s OutWrite day now entitled Coming of Age. I’ve also polished up two other stories which I’ve sent to Fiction Feast magazine and completed some commercial work. No further work on the novel which is increasingly bugging me. The more I stress about it the worse it gets so I am going to put it on the back burner for a bit.
And on the social front – had a great night out with my colleagues from Company Y last night – grand curry at The Jewel in the Crown and a good catch up gossip-wise. Tomorrow brings the Larmer Tree Festival which we bought tickets for this afternoon. Fun times ahead. And as as for Mrs Q? No sign of baby Hughes yet but we are watching and waiting…
Cherries
After a week we go out.
You take me back to the park where, one late afternoon in May, a warm breeze carried pink petals soft as blush to where we lay beneath the cherry blossom trees. That day we ate fresh buckwheat noodles with sushi. And melon – soft and ripe and sweet. When we finished, we looked up at the sky and closed our eyes, the light patter of blossom grazing our cheeks as it fell. Later that evening you brought me cherries – round, plump and luscious in their shiny cases. I bit into them, sweet ruby juice dribbling down my chin.
Now the sky is padded with pleats of thick cloud – so unusual for August.
We find the tree we lay beneath that day. You squat, hunched; hands clasping knees – eyes fixed. I sit; legs stretched out, belly like the cherries you gave me – full and ripe and swollen. A hot wind rasps against my bare arms, tightening the pale skin. We do not speak. We do not need to. There is nothing left to say.
Closing my eyes I remember that Spring afternoon – the flutter of petals against my eyes, my hair, my face. And then I feel it again – brushing my legs, nudging my cheeks, whirling about my head.
I peel a soft flake from my lips longing to find the simplicity of a perfect pink petal. But it is not blossom. It is grey ash. Blown in from Nagasaki on an angry wind.
Attended my first ‘OutWrite’ to-day in Southsea and what a wonderful day it was. Southsea always seems to be sunny and to-day was no different. Six budding writers joined Chris and Rob Richardson for a day of literary indulgence. Starting at Portsmouth Museum, we were given forty-five minutes to find an exhibit or museum space which captured our imagination and to use this as inspiration for a story. The challenge then was to find a quiet space, write and then return to base having completed a literary masterpiece – kind of. Next stop was Portsmouth Cathedral where we were given time to roam the Cathedral and wander through the gardens and write from the heart as Rob would say. After a lovely lunch in Twig’s Cafe, we walked to Kings Road to the last venue where, over tea and biscuits, we read back our pieces and voted on our favourites. Such a lovely, creative way to spend a sunny Saturday in June.
My story from the museum is posted here and is called ‘Coming of Age’ The idea came from watching some black and white newsreel showing people walking along Southsea seafront on a hot, sunny day. The story is pretty rough but is as I wrote it in the time allowed with a little tidying up on the train on the way home.
Coming of Age
It was hot that August of ‘39. So hot, the women stopped wearing stockings and the men rolled their sleeves up over their elbows. That was before the war came and changed everything.
One Sunday afternoon, we walked along the seafront – Mum and Dad in front – me dragging behind; part of me wanting to walk with them; part of me wanting to be apart. Dribbles of ice-cream from my cornet wept like tears between my fingers, staining the white cuff of my sleeve.
I was fifteen – no longer a child – not yet a woman.
The summer before, Mum bought me a new pair of sandals and I was still wearing them a year later; tan leather with a cut-out flower punched into the toe – a slim strap fixed with a tiny buckle.
And I was still wearing them now. How I loathed them. Hated that mean little strap – the creamy crepe soles – the ridiculous cut-out flower now ragged round the edges. They were for younger girls – the ones who huddled in little groups giggling together – their bottle-green school berets jostling together like a pack of agitated beetles.
But I was an only child. Much loved and cherished – and that was how they wanted to keep me.
When we’d bought the sandals last June in Clarks I’d secretly admired the lace-ups with the high heels – the ones I’d seen the girl who worked in our corner shop wearing. But I hadn’t the heart to point them out to Mum when she’d pulled down the flat summer sandals from the shelf marked ‘Girls’.
‘They’re lovely Mum,’ I’d said, ‘they’ll do me fine.’
How pleased she been. Relieved. Another year to keep me as a child. But it couldn’t last for ever – we both knew that – the clock was ticking.
That day on the front, as we passed the pier, a lady sat on a bench by the sailor in the glass box – the one you put threepence into to make him guffaw like a laughing policeman.
Her long black coat was patched and threadbare – a straw hat with purple flowers – like the ones donkeys wear on the beach – made her look like a scarecrow. Nearly eighty degrees and she was wrapped up for winter. She was talking to a seagull – it’s beak jabbing at a discarded chip. Between her lips a woodbine – wheezy breath dragging nicotine into phlegm-filled lungs.
I slowed my pace to peer at her and as I did a group of boys stopped to stare. One of them bent down and grabbed a handful of shingle washed in by the tide and flung it at her skirts. She shifted position to avoid the cascade of tiny stones.
Confusion washed over me – I was uneasy but didn’t understand why. It was hot and my sandals were too small – my feet stinging and smarting in the heat. They no longer fitted. Caught between the old woman and the boys I felt out of place.
‘Come on lady – give us a smoke,’ one of them taunted as he stooped to pick up a pebble.
‘Go on Stan – lob it at her,’ his friend laughed.
I winced as the stone skittered across the ground, sending the seagull flapping to one side indignantly.
‘Give it a rest boys. I’m just an old woman – leave an old girl to enjoy her fag eh?’
I shuffled my feet – pushing the toe of my sandal into the crack between two paving stones – hot leather biting into thin skin as the strap tightened against my heel.
And then I decided.
‘Leave her alone. She’s not hurting you – let her have a fag in peace.’
The boys turned to stare at the overgrown girl in a green gingham dress, clutching an ice-cream and wearing children’s shoes.
‘Go on.’ I braved, ‘hop it – go and pick on someone else.’
As they shuffled off, the lady in black turned and grinned at me, a dog-end hanging from her bottom lip.
‘Thanks lovee – they’re only kids eh? Just boys being boys.’
Smiling back, I ran to catch up with my parents.
‘Those sandals pinching you love?’ Mum asked. ‘You’ll be sixteen next birthday – time we got you something more grown up. They had some lovely lace-ups in Clarks with quite a dainty heel.’
I decided against writing a story in the Cathedral and settled instead for a poem – new territory for me. I sat in the remembrance garden which was paved with memorial stones – a kind of grey mosaic. So here’s the poem – again pretty rough due to time constraints – but that’s the name of the game.
Past lives
Spread out like patchwork made of stone,
I know that I am not alone.
The names and dates beneath my feet
of people I will never meet.
You long to speak but silenced now
I understand you cannot tell,
of lives lived in another time
so different then to that of mine.
Yet you knew love and sadness once,
fear and pain and dissonance.
But while I continue with my plight
you no longer have to fight.
And as I sit I feel ashamed
and dread that I will find my name.
Another square as yet unlaid,
I know not in which year or day.
Very pleased to have had a short story ‘The Feeder’ published in the July edition of First Edition Magazine. First Edition is a great periodical aimed at new writers. The monthly mag is packed each month with short stories, prose and poems plus the latest news from the writing world. The magazine can be purchased from all good retailers!!! Go buy it !! Please…
Another WriteOnsite entry – 30 minutes to write a story. Three themes given when the 30 minutes started – I went with: ‘Chaz’s 1970’s polo-neck cardigan.’ Absolutely thrilled with Penny Legg’s kind reference on her blog.
So, please – do take a read…
I like sitting on my Dad’s lap because he wears trousers which are soft and don’t scratch the backs of my legs. It’s best in winter on Saturdays because in the morning we go to the library together and Dad lets me choose books from the grown ups section. I like it because Dad lets me be on my own with no-one to tell me to put my legs together when I sit or not to wipe my nose on the back of my hand. Sometimes he lets me stay for more than one hour before he comes back for me. He says he likes to spend time on his own choosing his books but not to tell Mum as how we spend our Saturdays is our business and ours alone. I like that.
Best of all I like it when we go home and Mum cooks us Spam fritters and we have nice puddings like Arctic Roll. Dad is always happy then but sometimes Mum is not and she says:
‘Charlie where have you been all this time with her?’
And Dad says:
‘Leave it Maureen – the kid’s happy in the library,’ and smiles at me and I smile back.
In the afternoon Dad likes to watch Grandstand and I get to sit on his lap. When it’s cold he wears this cardigan I love. It’s pale brown with curly knitting down the front – like bits of knitted rope. The best bit is the buttons which are like flat footballs – all brown and shiny and smooth with stitching on them. I like to rub my fingers across them because they are hard and flat like Dad’s fingernails. Dad says this is our special time and I like it because I can look at one of the library books while he watches TV.
Sometimes Mum comes in and says:
‘Come on Charlie – help me with this or that or something.’
Dad says:
‘Later on love,’ and she goes out of the room.
The worst day was when she came in one Saturday and she looked like she had been crying and I was scared. She said that her friend Mavis had seen me in the library that morning but he wasn’t there. She said that Mavis saw him down the road in the Wimpey with another lady. He said this was not true and not to talk about it in front of me.
That Saturday I remember it was raining outside and he had his cardigan done up to his chin with all the football buttons showing in a line down the front like the chocolate buttons Mum puts on trifles at Christmas. I asked Dad who the lady was and he said no-one and said everything was OK. But I knew it was not OK because after the Basil Brush Show, Mum came in and said if he wanted to walk in smelling of perfume he could but not in her house and then she said she was going to stay at Mavis’s. Even though Mum has gone I still sit on Dad’s lap on Saturdays while he watches TV but I don’t like his cardigan now as it makes me think of Mum and of her not being here and most of all of how Dad wants to wear perfume but isn’t allowed to.
