Amy’s Christmas Story

It’s about time someone else got a foot in the door. Or, a word in edgeways, to be more accurate. I know I said ‘About time,’ in my head as I smiled and said. ‘Okay, thanks,’ and accepted the offer to tell a story about a Christmas party. Every month we do this, one of us invited to tell a story and then we sit around mulling it over. Dissecting the line, its value, and go away and write one of our own that matches, prequels or sequels, or whatever.

I am not usually like this but the nearer it gets to Christmas… Well, it’s a story, I suppose. My turn now. A few hundred words to read to the group.

‘We were drinking cocktails at the time. Being precise, they or rather, it, was a ‘French 75,’ for the first time. Champagne, gin, lemon, and sugar syrup, if you want to know the contents. You’ll have to find the formula yourself or just keep tasting it until you get it right or it knocks you out

That was after the espresso cocktails, as he called them. Something like that, anyway. I don’t drink a lot but if I get offered something I like, I tend to drink it. Okay, them. Yes, I do mix things but I try not to get legless, or brain dead. Both have happened, mind you, but the worst is chucking up. The worst,  ‘toilet-head’ is not me, except for once.

I’m quite a big girl. You know me, above average in most places and I do find it hard to fit in.  I find it difficult to talk to people until I get to know them. There are regulars in the library, mostly older women or mums with children. Often children on their own, up to about ten, then they stop coming. Reckon they stop reading.

I still read a lot, think that’s working in a library for you. Or maybe why I work in the library. You probably know I’m a writer, a scribbler, a wanna-be hack without the smallest of success, yet.   But I am still young and got the need to write, like all of us here.

Back to the beginning. We were in the Conservative club, of all places, where the sitting MP was doing a Christmas buffet for the town’s party members.  Quite a number altogether. Not me!  I was standing out like a sore thumb, like a nun at a party. Well, a goth at a party of Conservatives! It was the 23rd, yes, the 23rd of December.

‘He,’ was PR Joe. That’s what I called him. He had been a feature of the library for a few years. Always asking for books we never had. Textbooks on marketing, on psychology and business and all that sort of stuff.  It was usually me at the desk when he called-in to ask for, order, or collect  all those odd books. So he’d chat as I sorted and scanned them.  I learned a lot, about him.  He was at college, then an evening course followed by training courses etc. etc. I was interested enough to listen but not to care.

He was okay. Nice eyes, okay smile. One of the few blokes who spoke to me.  He had casually invited me to the party, so I accepted, just as casually. Anyway, at the club, he, Gerald, was something or other to this MP and was able to free-load at the do. Well, he was gladding me up by ordering these cocktails.  He might have been getting a bit tipsy. I certainly was, admittedly, and know I was snuggling up to him a bit.  The drink, it was the drink. They were strong.

Anyway, we kept sort of moving out of people’s way, along the bar. He was moving forward into me, so I hesitated backwards. Eventually, on the third, no fourth cocktail, I found myself stuck in the corner with him, Gerald, pressed into me.  As I said, I’m quite big, and tall, pretty sure of myself but quiet. This was the first time I ever felt intimidated and I had no sensation of its approach.

I suddenly felt trapped but stood there, a smile fixed. Drink in one hand and the other raised, palm flat, on the lapel of his jacket intending to move him away from me. Instead, he pressed forward and I could feel my own hand trapped, pressed to my chest. Felt my heart pulsing harder as I got more anxious at my predicament.  I reacted, looked away as I felt his lower hand fondle my hip and slid round to my belly when I didn’t move. I was frozen, my eyes trapped in his again, mind-fogged, stuck. Too dazed to react but suddenly almost sober.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispered. I looked back at him, he didn’t notice the daggers. I jumped as his fingers spread to my groin, hit my head on the wall as I instinctively tried to get away.  Him or the drink? I was feeling dizzy.

‘Are you okay? Do you need some fresh air?”

I felt the hand move, the pressure on my chest lessen and fall away. I was able to turn my body as well as my head toward the voice. That headlight feeling still had me. I recall screwing my eyes, swallowing and give a smiling yes in a croaky voice as I re-opened them.  That man’s, Gerald’s, hand slipped away and I turned and faced the new voice fully. I recognised her as Milly from the Writers Circle.

“Yes, please.” Was all that escaped.

Milly took my drink from me, took my hand with his other and just led me. Helped me through the noise of people, into the foyer. ‘Do you want to go outside?’

‘Home, I just want to go home.’ That was all I could say. All I could say.

It’s not a big town. I had walked to the club. Milly walked home with me. Side by side, silently, sympathetically, still holding my hand. She offered to sit with me, I said thank you to her before I shut my front door.

I went into the kitchen, sat on a chair. Sat.  Then just banged the table as hard as I could as ‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’ crawled out of my mouth and tears finally fell.

And that’s my Christmas story, from five years ago.’

short story by Amy, discuss.

George and the Dragon. A short, short story

George got out of bed and looked out of the window. What would he do today? Yesterday he saved a pirate captain from being eaten by a crocodile. The day before, he had flown his space-ship and defeated the alien fleet. On Sunday he had climbed and chopped his way through thick trees and brambles to rescue the dinosaur egg from the sleeping witch.

What would he do today?

He looked out of the window.  He saw a dragon.  The biggest, angriest dragon he had ever seen.  Not just big, not just green and red but enormous. A big, big body with a bottom that sat on the house opposite, a foot in the pond and a long neck with a big, lumpy head that rested on a car.  The dragon looked at George.  The dragon had big red eyes, looked at George and blinked.

George looked at the dragon and smiled.  “I can fight a dragon today. Hooray!” he said out loud.

The dragon heard George and sniffed a snort and turned his head towards the window to look at the boy.

“Oh dear!” he said with a sigh.  A sigh that pushed out black, smelly smoke which drifted over to George and made his window all sooty.

George dressed quickly, put on his cloak, picked up his sword and shield.  Put them down again and went to the toilet.  After drying his hands he picked up his shield and sword and marched down the stairs.

The dragon put an eye close to the window and looked, through the soot, as George got ready to fight.

“Oh dear!” sighed the dragon again.  This time the soot from his nose made the wall of the house all black and the glass of the window thick and sticky like black glue.

“George, you must have some breakfast.  You should not fight dragons on an empty tummy.  Have some toast and milk first.” said his mummy from the kitchen.

So George sat down with his cloak upon his shoulders and his shield upon his arm and his sword on the table, ready to fight.  He drank milk ,as white as falling snow.  He ate a slice of toast as black as dragon’s breath, with jam as red as dragon’s eyes.  And a packet of crisps as crunchy as, well, a packet of crisps.

With his other eye the dragon saw all of this.  “Oh dear,” he sighed and a tear rolled out of his eye and rolled down into his big black nostril.  And he sneezed.  The whole street was covered in black, like glue, like dark toffee, but not so nice.

“Oh dear. Oh dear!” said the dragon and sighed as he pulled out a great big hanky, as big as a double-sized bed sheet, from under his wing.  The ghastly coloured dragon, with scaly green and yellow body, huge red eyes and nostrils puffing smoke, wiped away all the mucky black, sticky goo from off the house.  Cleaned the windows, wiped the door and polished the car.

George finished his breakfast and grabbed his shield and sword and walked to the front door.  He was just about to open it, to fight the dragon, to chase him away, when he heard the noise outside.

There was a swishing, a banging, a clatter and a hiss.  Steam came in, under the door, through the letterbox and the cracks in the floor.  There was a clang and a cough and a sigh. Then silence.

There was a flapping outside as the dragon stretched his wings to tuck his hanky away.

George stood with his hand on the latch, thought he would just take a little look, then go read a book.  The dragon licked his lips and sat quietly waiting before knocking on the door. Tapping everso lightly.

George opened the door, shield and sword at the ready.  There stood the postman with green coat flapping in the wind, bag tucked under his arm and red van at the roadside.

“You’re no dragon!” called George at the postman.  The postman stepped backwards.

“Oh dear!” he sighed and wiped his nose with a dirty, smoke-stained hanky,  “I’m too old to be a dragon anymore,” he said gently.  Gave George the letters he held in his hand and went back to his van.

George watched him leave.  The van gave a snort and a belch and smoke filled the air as it moved away and up.  Circled twice round the house and with a toot of its horn flew towards the mountains far away.

“Now what shall I do?” said George with a sigh.

DJS     fiction

Our Sister Killjoy

Ama Ata Aidoo. First published 1977 This cover is of the first edition in the Longman African Classics series, published 1988 in paperback only.

The observations of a young woman from Ghana, Sissie, who travels to Europe with a degree in English Literature and travels first to Germany and then to London.

This prose poem, nearly fifty years after it was first written describes first impressions of a strange world: the German language, a mix of fellow travellers on the course, in addition to a German woman who befriends her.

In London she meets other Africans who moved there for work or their education and felt unable to return home due to their apparent obligation to earn money and send that home to support relatives.

During these journeyings we see through her eyes, read her thoughts and words, discover her surprise at what she finds and at times her naivete. Throughout, she talks and argues on points of colonialism, feminism, and the need for the educated diaspora to return to their home countries to help build their independent countries. Varying from her forthright youth and conviction on a subject, she balances the writing with a calmer view of observation on herself and surroundings, and an opposing argument. In the ‘London’ section, she gives voice to those making the common decision of remaining abroad and sending financial support to families in Africa. She is also reminded of the ‘kudos’ of having a relative living in Europe. Pros and cons of this life take turns. A culminating ‘discussion’ towards the end of the book is both fiery and having elements of debate. Tucked neatly through the pages are quiet moments of reflection and softer touches of life such as how she negotiates others and herself in the second section titled ‘The Plums’

This book may have been written long ago but has been an intriguing and influential prose-poem from the first. I believe this is still a text studied in Ghana and Africa. I hope it is studied as a ‘Literature in English’ text and in English/ International courses. No doubt still valuable in Sociology and Post-colonial studies. The book needs to be read as a whole, but for me, the poetry sections, which fit perfectly but frequently change the pace and tone of the ‘story,’ are the highlights. Okay, I may have been around when Longman first published the book (a series started and run by the brilliant Anne Walmsley) but it has taken me 35 years to read this for the first time. I have read it start to finish in almost one sitting. I just wish I had read it sooner

Check out the other works by Ama Ata Aidoo. You can also read her biog. details on this site: https://literarymama.com/articles/departments/2016/02/a-profile-of-ama-ata-aidoo-draft

Incidentally, I did read Lamming’s, In The Castle of my Skin (hardback) and Selvon’s, Lonely Londoners (Longman Caribbean Writers) when they were first published by Longman all those years ago. They are also still high on my list of recommendations of classic books to read.

Dunkirk, 1940.

Extract from ‘Connections’ by J Johnson Smith

Ernest was on duty.  The barracks were blacked out.  They were allowed the small stove to warm themselves and three men just had space sit round it.  One currently stood outside the small hut whilst two others walked their half of the perimeter to the other guard post, made contact and returned.  Despite being in the centre of England the air was tense. The war was infiltrating everywhere.   

Solihull was not where he had expected to go.  Guarding the caves was not where he had wanted to be. The British Expeditionary Force had enrolled a swathe of his friends, comrades.  He had volunteered for the Norway adventure but it was not to be.  His barracks at Kempston had been emptied of his draught and refilled twice over.  His failing? His leg.  The hospital years, as a young teenager, had been spent with an open wound on his shin where they could pick out the flakes of bone as it corroded.  And now the army spotted it.  Unserviceable.  Not suited to active service.  High risk, no marching, light duties only.

They were guarding the caves, military secrets, munitions; training to repel invasion.  Stakes were high and the enemy bombers flew higher overhead, regularly searching out their targets to destroy the railways, factories, dumps and civilians. 

Invasion was imminent, the whole country knew it.  Norway was a rout half-known.  The BEF in France had been swirled, turned and boxed into a savage corner. Rearguards had been defiant.  Every day a small vantage point held out. Every moment a man would die.  Every house, hedge and tree meant time and lives miraculously saved.  The enemy pushed on, pushed the disparate allies back into the sea.  Lines and huddles of men blackened the beaches.  Stukas screamed and dropped their promise of death onto beaches and the bobbing river boats and bobbing heads of men as they lined up, maybe chin deep in the flat calm sea.  And the defensive line held long enough. The line survived as the boats arrived.  Time trickled like sand through the barrel of a gun as men were rescued through the smoke of burning oil and vehicles on the beach of Dunkirque. Half an army was rescued in the first miracle.  And the defensive line was done, was surrendered.  In the quiet, the crows re-took the sky.

The weather broke, the resistance had ended.  The South of England waited, baited, at bay.  Like deer in a forest seeking a thicket with the buck snorting round in agitation. Like the fox leering from its hole under the tree.  Waiting for the storm to cross the channel and reap its reward.   In the silence, the weeks, the sky was filled with the hum of bees and the song of blackbirds perched on the highest twig.  The bees and wasps flew as never before and the birds continued their way, fluffing and tucking their nests. Turning their eggs to keep the warmth.  Cock and hen waiting their turn to fly before their future hatched and they passed on the relentless passing of the seasons.  

Remember the fox, see the glint in the eye as it ventures out, stronger.  Remember the buck as it stands and stares with its lichen smattered antlers, head turning like an aerial looking for the ghost.   Even the bats that fly in the early evening follow in line at the start, to scatter and flitter seemingly at random across the sky around their oak tree of home.  To the old, forgotten, now recalled, wild boar that reappeared at the edge of the gorse, like Arthur, destined to defend and attack, to the death.

High above the bees and the wasps were the waves of black drones across the sky and the sparrow hawks that looped and interwove between.  Blossoms of scarlet, orange and brilliant flame occasionally appeared and would twist and twirl from the prey, however, why-ever, to the ground.  And yellow, grey and white butterflies might attend the display.  On the ground, from his thicket fence, the hunter watched.

Ernest was outside, on night-duty patrol, the barracks were blacked out and two other soldiers were seated round the fire.  One soldier looked at the other and said, ‘We must have a story.’

The other looked back and spoke. ‘Bollocks!’

I am Herian

‘I am Herian’

 I should tell you right away that I am known by several different names. In fact it could well be dozens. It’s more a matter of what people have known of me, seen of me or just imagined. They came up with synonymous names and expectations of who I am or what I am: a myth.

In this instance you might come across me as Henry Park or pick me out as Heinrich, or Sergeant; young or old, popping up in uniform or sombre dress.  However, there are more mundane sightings but not always recognised in my weeds of green.

When it comes down to it, I think my preferred name is Herian and that’s spelt  HERIAN… Probably my favourite because it gives a sense of my place at least in this world. Though you may see me as Cernunnos or Herne and other guises.

Who am I. What am I? That’s your choice. In those days and still today, I Herian, known as the ‘leader of fallen warriors.’

 I am not Death, perhaps I am Hope, nevertheless I can only lead toward the inevitable.

I may never be recognised, but for me, it means I still have ‘purpose.’ Without purpose I would be forgotten. Without  purpose I would not exist. As I said, I have many names but my natural place is in the forest, the undergrowth within the haunting ring of trees or beside beasts that need peace; not life or death but compassion; for that is the way it is.

Character link: ‘Connections’ by J Johnson Smith. (NYP)

Extract from ‘Connections’. by J Johnson Smith

37

The news of Mons and the stalling at Menin had been in the news of 1915.  Weeks drifted on with further tales of losses and news of the war.  The house was awash with visitors at weekends. They rarely had time to ride the horses and had to leave that to the stableman that came everyday now.  Michael was at the Front again. He had left some months ago and they had received one letter that mentioned a slow journey and military every where but little else.  In England politics was getting a bit ‘noisy.’ The unity at the start of the war was not much above four-months old and already there was whining, moaning and boasting in the House. Newspapers were pointing out that industry was not pulling it’s weight, especially the foreign, especially the German, firms scattered round the country.

MPs had less free time with more debates and meetings, plans to be constructed and tinkered with while news of the war came home in headlines. Time was kaleidoscoping for Edward.

Another letter arrived from Michael. He was wounded, not badly, he said, but was coming home to recover from a thigh wound and a broken leg. Just before Christmas he returned with stick and plastered leg.  Older, bad-tempered and restless. Eager to get back to his men, to the mess they were in, embarrassed to have left them, unable to say goodbye.

Edward was also listless. University finally over he had spent the last of the summer holidaying with friends. Parties in Cornwall, parties in Scotland, visiting lots of friends and their sisters until his time had run out and he returned to his parents and Gray House.  His brother, Michael, had been around briefly before being sent back to France and they had spent a few nights at theatre, music-hall and even the picture-house as well as at Saffron Park.  It had been good to catch up with him. He seemed a bit too staid now, even though he was only a lieutenant so didn’t have much to do in the army. (Thought Edward, a month or few in France should not have kept him so sober!)  The Army had sent Michael back to the Bedfordshire battalions but as it was early December now and the papers still reported that Christmas would be fine and it could still be over soon enough.  Either the Kaiser and Bismark would give up or they would all agree to redraw Europe.  So Edward just cast about looking for a little entertainment and a direction for his life, maybe even a career.

His youth allowed him late nights and the ability to skirt around the morning conversations with his parents and slide out into the still white-frosted morning.  It was Sunday, too early for the Church service he would not go to anyway, and he felt too lazy to go further than stroke the muzzle and  whiskers of the two horses they had in the yard. The best, Michael’s hunter, was gone. Off to war they had gone, Michael and his horse, only one had come back, as yet, maybe they will return the horse in the New Year, Easter, whenever.  Wonder who is with him now, hope they brush and comb him properly, he liked to look smart!

Edward wiped the horse saliva from his hand onto his cord trousers and shrugged himself further into his high-necked jumper. Knotted his scarf firmly round his chin, re-buttoned the dun overcoat that belonged to his brother. There was no wind nor even a breeze but he pulled the collar half-up as protection and for effect and walked out of the drive and turned towards the village. His ankle boots skimming over the frosted puddles as he walked quickly, enjoying the confidence in his body as he felt his legs and back adjust to the slippery ice.

In bravado he put his hands in his pocket as he recalled himself and his brother, and the other lads, skating on the iced canal when they were small. And the cracks and fracture-lines like broken glass that would shoot out as their weight pressured along the surface. How they had all veered towards the bank except him, the lightest, who forced his nerve and line to the bridge before swerving to the bank and calling back for commendation from the others.

Down the road, through the muddied leaves and sparkling grit to the junction.  Opposite was the small church, lights on ready for the service. On its southern flank, peering over the churchyard hedge was the poet’s tomb. Hard and blank stone, like a concrete bunker sitting on a plinth, observing nothing and nothing to say.   Edward had always felt oppressed by it, even in sunlight, reading the inscription it gave no appeal. But raise your head and look at the frosted tussocks and heavy webs drifting down from hedgerow to stiff nettles along the run of the meadow, as he did, and the tomb disappeared leaving just the vision.

Edward shivered as the cold ran down his spine and walked through the lych-gate, the kissing-gate, and into the cream-walled church.  Looking ahead, in the new year, 1916, a New Year’s resolution: he would join the army.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………                  

extract from ‘Connections’. by J Johnson Smith (NYP)

Last Thing.

Craig’s world was falling apart. He watched as the cracks appeared like a hatching egg.  Having angular lines that snagged into a small section, it floating up and out.  Followed by a spume of orange that squirted into a million fragments.  Almost simultaneously he saw a separation into halves and quarters and a million assorted pieces enveloped in a cloud of what was once solid or liquid or molten but now a gas refracting like a giant rainbow and expanding further than his peripheral vision could cope.  It seemed timeless slow-motion.  Soundless. That was the weirdest thing.  His brain expected sound.  Noise of some sort was required.  Usually these visuals were accompanied by the rush of appropriate noises of burning, gushing, gaseous explosions.  Not forgetting a hectic crescendo-ridden orchestration of strings, brass and tympani.

There it was, all before him.  The moon trying to slingshot away then being re-harnessed briefly before scattering like birdshot of burning crystals through the edge of the expanding gas ball that once was Earth.

And the balance was gone. Before his eyes he watched as the distant planets, aeons afar, burst like ripe grapes and sank as melting snowflakes into the red bloody sun.

“A long, slow, sunset.”  He said quietly into the clear window.

They all stood watching the fatal show.  As many as could dare were facing the last of the old world through the outer ports.  More were crowding the screens on the decks wherever they sat or stood.   At workstations, leisure sections or the mess, they huddled round to watch the vast, silent, slowscape of the old worlds’ demise.   And eventually they grew bored and drifted back to their work or conversations.  Many just turned over on their bunks and closed their eyes to sleep before they needed to rise for their shift.  Those children not already asleep were shepherded  back to their dorm-bunks by their unity-mothers.

Inside this tight little world life moved back into its rhythm over the next few hours, doing its best to retain the circadian cycle for those on board.  Outside the inked space reached out to infinity allowing the sparkling glimpses of other systems to hang in the distance.  Even the remnant red sun slowly sank out of the people’s thoughts as time moved on, as it darkened and dwarfed.

Sunset and a new dawn was to be looked forward to.

flash fiction

The Last Chord

The Last Chord

Well, that was easy enough!   Finding a title for a new story that, I hope, catches interest.

I suppose I have now started a meta-story! (Still unsure if this is the correct technical term, especially if a story is true. But then is it a story if it is a factual description of an event?).  Not my problem I suppose; I am just the typist, the mouthpiece, the teller of tales.

Anyway it is not about me so I can make-up details that I don’t know.  Who then is it about?

Errol.   Not his real name but it will do because he chose it himself.  He told me the story. I should say, “gave” me the story.  Said I could use it if I liked.  He is unselfish like that.  Now I have wound myself up I had better continue:

Errol is a musician. The clue may be in the title!   He plays keyboard, and piano.  Or does that count as keyboards?   You gather I am no musician. I appreciate music but can only listen and be a self-appointed critic. That’s okay for the odd comment but limited in constructive analysis and production.

So, he has this dream and wakes up in a state of frenzy (his word) because in that half-world state  he knew he was asleep, knew he was dreaming and knew he could be awake any second.  He also knew that in his dream he was creating incredible music.   This is not a new phenomenon to almost anyone who has an active dream-life and is involved in music, in whatever form. That means creative, performing or just listening.  The average karaoke singer, raver in the audience or club-goer, even the one in the street always listening on earbuds may be predisposed to dreaming wonderful music.  Mostly it escapes as soon as the sleeper wakes leaving a frustrating memory that something magical happened….  ‘but what was it?’    It has even happened to me and I cant hold a tune for more than two bars!

Errol, however, has one of those memories that seems to capture the slightest of fleeting moments when it comes to music.  Yes, he is almost guaranteed to know the name and artist of anything you might hear on a music station.  Offer him the first few notes, middle bars or a handful of lyrics and he is there with an answer.  If he is near a key-board he could even give you a sample.

So, true-to-form he sat at the keyboard, closed his eyes and re-imagined his dream. That easy!   Intro., base-line, then the melody over the top, second track. He had to re-set the speed slightly to lay a drum under that. He “would have preferred a live drummer who could react better to the change of rhythms” so had to make do with his own manipulation. His idea was to record it straight from his dream, as it were. Once digitised he could play it back, plugged into his app and get it transposed straight into the music pages.

He had done this with all his compositions.  ‘Tunes’, he called them in a somewhat simplified way. Not sure if he is playing them down or himself.  Anyway, this all transferred across happily and by the very end of that same day his final action was to print off the file with its four parts.  He was about to finalise a whole day’s work from a fully formed dream to a fully formed score.

Errol is a great musician.   Not quite so good, it would seem, on more mundane things.   The printer had no paper; he had no paper, full stop!  Not even used, one sided paper that he could do an emergency print on.  He flipped from exhausted excitement to instant irritation. Shouted at the printer, slammed the paper-tray lid down and shouted at the impartial screen of beautiful music he wanted to print.

Frustrated he sat at the keyboard. Shoulders sagged, he frowned as he turned to deep-breathing in an effort to calm himself. Failed.  His hunched fingers tapped irritatingly on the top of the keyboard so much that it even annoyed himself.  Errol closed his eyes, felt his jaw clench, his muscles and tendons go taut down his arm to his wrist and finally turning his fingers into claws with the tension.  He promised he didn’t shout out loud but yelled in his own head.  Raised his head as the unnecessary anger dulled his hearing and senses.  In reaction to this he thrust his hands down and hit the keys.

The chord sat in the air, the keys set to echo and reverb. Or was it just an echo in his ears?   In sheer surprise he opened his eyes and simultaneously lifted his hands off the keyboard as if to see more clearly where his fingers had been.  He glimpsed shadows of his fingers, they were pressing the keys. moving slightly as if testing the volume, subtly changing in rhythm. It must have been deja vu. He watched thrugh the gap in his hands. Once more the chord struck out as the shadows sat on the keys, hovered and were gone.

The following day Errol added the last chord to his manuscript.  It worked perfectly, it rounded the whole piece off.  It was unlike anything he wrote as his ‘day-job’.  Errol bought a ream of paper, printed the new score and filed it in an old box-file.  He told me he put it with the others. How could he publish someone else’s music?

He never has told me who he thought it was trying to write a pop tune, I would have to guess at Mozart, maybe Schubert?

flash fiction

School Reunions made compulsory from 2020

School Reunions made compulsory from 2020

 

OFSTACCED  (Office for statistics alongside continuing compulsory education).   have now restructured and issued guidelines for the educational measurement of the population every ten years from the anniversary of students leaving school.   It is understood that some students may have left their secondary school at differing dates, especially between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; because of this all leavers from 2020 will be given the specific date on which they must return to their last Tertiary Educational Establishment, Higher Ed..    To allow for the numbers of people  moving round the country on said specific days, these days will cover as short a period as possible in early August.

Those days  (over a week) will be just after the end of each Final Term, (year’s end) so the students currently still attending school will have left for their holidays.  Therefore this is likely to be the first week in August, unless and notwithstanding.

The structure of the measurements will be based on the following brown paper: Each group has a single day:

A brief introduction at 8 a.m..  Followed by free-time for ex-students to mingle and exhume old friendships and antipathies.  This will be followed by a closely observed period of physical activity  which will be In free-selection mode but must include some heavy-breathing exercise.

Time for relaxation and recuperation allowed (timing to be confirmed), with free bottles of water.

Brief examination outlines will then be given to groups that will be expected to have re-formed their old class numbers and unions. These outlines will concern the nature of the afternoon tests from which the National Data Bank will be able to analyse the physical and mental condition of the participants.

Passage of time will mean testing formulas will alter but anticipated to be based on the previous ten years’ quiz shows.  Under current circumstances, but not necessarily including or excluding any of these examples, or any potential examples not included here, or as yet implied or no longer current, such potential questions and activities may, or may not, be specific examples from such programmes as:

Countdown, QI, The Chase, Generation Game, Sports Quiz, Tipping Point and Mensa.    Old examinations such as GCSE and A levels will be excluded for fear of bias towards students that may have taken those exams.

Results will be pinned on notice boards within those educational establishments in a straight numerical mark order and also in candle-graphs and pie diagrams, for aesthetic reasons.  The original teachers of these students, if ever identified, will receive horizontal colour-coded bar-charts of their various years’ achievements. These will be collated as year-on-year results so eventually all will be on lovely, colourful stripey sheets of A1 paper.

This may seem a large remit for OFFSTACCED but they are persuaded by the Government that all information will be analysed, stored and voided in the best interest of the country as a whole in the vital work of raising the people’s educational level so they may be better qualified to attend and successfully reach the standards set by these new Re-union Tests.

writing: the first sentence:

First line:

I know the struggle between advice and your own idea can be like warfare when looking at a blank page.

“The first few words of any writing establishes the tone of the work and its narrative stance”………likely but no gaurantees

“The length of the first sentence is a good gauge of the authors style”…… pretty fair comment.

“The first sentence will hook the reader into the story”………………….ummmm!    It will encourage you to read-on but the first few paragraphs, maybe pages, are needed to convince the reader to stay loyal.    Anyway, writer’s formula or no, it is still the reader that makes the ultimate decision to continue…… or abandon at any stage……

“Readers:  Some you win, some you lose.”

For me the actual process of writing is a cross between having a starting point and an inkling of direction but no real address to end up at; or the opposite in having a final point of disclosure with an annoying twist at the end; but the who and how is a mystery.

The nub for me, start or finish, is a caught word or phrase eavesdropped, ideally from a stranger.   As characters emerge, their voices establishing who they are and indeed where they are enables a story to flow.  Like the proverbial story of a spring of water  finding its way to the sea; you may find attachments and sub-stories, information falling like rain and ideas flooding or suddenly soaking away into nothing.

The first enthusiasm of scratching paper should not be daunting or carved into stone.    This is where basic ideas, plots and characters start to fill the mind rather than just the page.  If complicated it may be time to consider an outline plot:  basic datelines and possibly a ‘hinge’ sentence that has established itself.  Draw a ‘mind-map’.    The noting of key characters and establishing names.   Names to me, like shoes to an actor, establish the character.  Not that the name conforms to a type or any of that old stuff but having a few key people sitting in your mind, on your shoulder, as you write about them builds their reality and it is you that have the important work of making them as alive to the reader as they are to you.

When do you actually write the ‘starting’ sentence that may define your work ?   The lines by which your work lives or dies?

Whenever you like!      But you have to consider it a hook to catch a reader’s interest.  I suppose it should be relevant to the storyline  and likely to resonate sooner rather than later; like a poem that has echoes throughout a series of stanzas, or the nail-biting end of a soap, to be continued; a chapter in the latest thriller or the now ubiquitous series of films.   People are mostly designed to want answers, look for patterns and signs.  It is authors that have the authority to provide those trails no matter what the subject.  To offer a footpath, small or otherwise, to the conclusion.    And that conclusion may well be inconclusive!

If you listen to different authors (actually I first used the word ‘writers’ but  ‘authors’ seems to raise the stakes a little!) who are widely published they will point out the way they start writing.; where research and plot take them and if they construct a chapter-plan or character-chart, or none.  The options are really as many as there are authors and what they offer is in fact proof that the ‘writer’ writes in their most effective manner.  Effective may well be the least efficient but practice and time usually builds technique.

So, are we any closer to a first sentence?     It may well be the last one you write……..in that particular genre/style/article/novel etc. etc……. not ever…….if you are a writer you will be unable to stop.        It is your responsibility to decide!

Ideally you will be your own editor and eventually find the right words for your work, be it short-story through to a never-ending saga, which will satisfy your belief in your work.   Length cannot be defined, nor words describe a style but confidence in yourself is required.

Of course you may be totally wrong!  Despite previous success/es, creative-courses or even text compilers(!!), only actual success and time will prove.   Read, re-read and edit, ask friends to comment but build on comment positively.

Once upon a time publisher’s editors would  “grammatise” and rewrite wherever required to enhance the book sales, unless the author was prestigious, grammatical or of James Joyce in style and status.  Today an author may be more averse to such alterations.   BUT, do listen to advice if offered.

That first sentence?  Assorted authors have said that to start writing you need a blank sheet of paper and to start writing a word:  and another and another.   It may not matter what the words are though perhaps they should be different.  Eventually your  ‘first sentence’ will appear.          If not?   That is another page and we will not accept it here.

This screed may not have helped very much except to proffer that it is you, the ‘author’, that has to make the final decision on that elusive snake: the first sentence.

 

Notes from Whittlestreet Crime Writer’s Circle