Follow you - Follow me...

Not only the title of a Genesis single from back in the day, but also a nod to the fact that I found the 'Follow' widget so my blogs are now stalkable.  To mark this momentous event, my first Official Follower will receive a small prize - assuming I can work out their identity, that is...

It's promising to be a busy couple of weeks.  I want to get my second edit of 'Fallen' completed before Friday so I can begin the sequel for NaNoWriMo... plus things to write for 100 Poets on 8 November. Nothing I can't handle, but it would help if I got started...

Matters not helped by the fact that, playing with the garden hose on Sunday, I've managed to damage my shoulder and put the muscles in my upper arm into spasm. Amongst other things, this means I look like I got dressed in the dark. For a bet.

Monday Storytime...

This week, with Halloween fast approaching, I have a story for you with that in mind.  Some of you may have read it before, in which case, my apologies...

The Halloween Handset

‘Where ever did you get it?’ Ruby asked, eyeing the unconventional telephone with a mixture of contempt and horror.

‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ Gerard enthused.  ‘It was on the Office web. ‘Perfect gift for Halloween’, they said.  And the eyes light up and everything!’

Ruby glared at her husband.

‘It’s shaped like a skull, Gerard, a shiny, tacky-looking skull.  It doesn’t have eyes – it’s got sockets…’

‘Oh, you know what I mean! But it’s ace, let me plug it in… look…’

But Ruby had set her lips together in a hard, hard line and had turned away.

‘It’ll make a great centrepiece for the party tonight…’

Ruby’s heels clattered disdainfully into the kitchen to where she’d been busy with the party food before Gerard’s arrival home had interrupted her. She was muttering under her breath all the while she cut bread and filled and sliced.

‘…Halloween party! Ha! Who bothers? It’s not as if we’ve kids to consider… instead we’re having half the street in to look at his new plasma and rub crumbs into the carpets…’

Deftly covering a plate with cling film, she slid it into the fridge and began slicing quiche and pizza.

‘Ruby… Rubes…’

Gerard slid his arms round her waist from behind.

‘Sorry, Hon,’ he whispered in her ear.  ‘C’mon.  Don’t be cross…’

She slapped his hands away, but her heart wasn’t in it and she was glad he couldn’t see her lips twitch in what was nearly a smile.

‘All right, then. Show me the stupid phone!’

He bounded away to the dining room, where he’d set the phone down on the sideboard, Ruby following in his wake, mildly curious  and watched  as he lifted away what was effectively the front of the face to reveal a dialling pad beneath.  He stabbed in a short sequence of numbers and put the handset back in place.  After a few seconds, a shrill ringing and two bright points of light shone out from deep in the eye sockets.

‘LEDs,’ Gerard enthused.  ‘The chap I bought it off said…’

But catching sight of the time, Ruby had headed upstairs to change.

‘Later, Gerard,’ her voice drifted down to him.

‘Promise?’ he called up hopefully.

He heard her door slam shut. No. Didn’t sound like it.  He grinned suddenly, hefting the phone high to sit in the palm of his hand.

‘…’Alas, poor Yorick’…’ he intoned.  ‘…’I knew him well’…’

‘It’s ‘Horatio’, Ruby called down the stairs.  ‘‘I knew him Horatio’.’

‘Thanks,’ he called out, briefly lifting his eyes skywards as he set the phone down.  ‘Knew you’d know that.’

Ruby appeared in the doorway. ‘Well? What do you think?’

She had a black felt pointed hat perched on top of her blonde and grey bob, a lacy black shawl cast over her favourite Little Black Dress with a fake plastic spider pinned to the edge of her décolletage.  Her stockings – probably tights, Gerard thought ruefully, were black with a tracery of silver spiderwebs printed over. Her shoes were black kitten heels and she was eyeing him with a measuring look, as if her question was another test.

‘Wow! You look very… er…appropriate, considering you don’t look at all like a witch,’ he ventured.

‘Thanks,’ she said drily and cast a glance around the room. ‘Will you bring in the bowl for the bob-apple?’  

‘Me?’

‘Well, I can’t be messing around with water and stuff now I’m dressed! And this party was your idea, after all.’

He sighed quietly.

‘Okay, I’m on it.’

*

Alone with the skull telephone staring at her from the centre of the sideboard, Ruby sighed.  All Gerard’s idea, he’d asked most of the neighbours – but, she’d noticed, he’d leaned heavily towards asking single young mums with children, for the most part.  Amongst his friends, he’d invited the married men and their wives.

‘I’m not in the mood!’ she told the skull.  It grinned at her. 

She sneered back at it and began rearranging glasses on the end of the sideboard.

A brief flash of red, then the shrilling of the phone, the eyesockets pulsing in time. Awkwardly she picked up the handset.

‘Hello?’

‘Gerard, hello?’ A woman’s voice, indistinct, an edge to it.  ‘Gerard?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Who’s that? Gerard, come and get me, the car’s stuck, in the ford near the woods…’

‘Yes, but what…?’

‘Is there anyone there? Hello?  ’

‘Look, I don’t have time for…’

‘Gerard!’ the woman’s voice changed, became anxious.  ‘Gerard, is that you?’

Ruby slammed the receiver back into place on the skull. Her eyes were dangerous as she stood, shaking.  What was Gerard doing, having strange women call him at the house? It might be perfectly innocent, but it felt like a betrayal.

Almost without thinking she grabbed her bag and car keys off the windowsill and stalked out into the evening darkness to the car; it was only a few minutes to the ford near the woods that the caller had mentioned - she’d tackle this at the source, and deal with Gerard later…

Not really thinking that far ahead, just filled with some vague wrath and determined that she would Make Him Pay, she drove off down the lane.

*

‘Hi, come in,’ Gerard said, welcoming the gaggle of guests that had showed up.  ‘Ruby’s just… er…  Make yourselves at home.  Anyone want a drink?’

‘Where’s Ruby?’  Sal, the wife of one of his pals, asked.  ‘Does she need a hand with anything?’

‘Actually, I’m not quite sure where she’s got to…’ Gerard frowned. ‘You could try the kitchen…’

Busy with his hosting duties, he got on with serving drinks.  No doubt Ruby would come through from the kitchen when she’d had a good vent .

*

Ruby crunched though the gears, sending her little car flying down the lane. A left turn at the bottom of the hill and she sloshed into the ford.

And then the engine stalled.

Furious, she got out, landing ankle deep in the cold water of the ford and struggled up the slope to stand under the only streetlight still working to drag her mobile from her bag.  Much against her will, she’d have to call Gerard to pick her up.

It seem to take forever to connect, for him to answer.

‘Gerard, hello?’ she said, unsure who’d picked up, she couldn’t hear a thing from the other end of the line. ‘Gerard?’

Nothing. Perhaps Gerard’s beloved new toy phone wasn’t working properly.

‘Who’s that?’ she demanded; someone had picked up, after all. ‘Gerard, come and get me, the car’s stuck, in the ford near the woods…’

Then she looked up as a sound distracted her, peering into the dark to where the fringe of the woods appeared to be stirring.

‘Is there anyone there?’ she called out, looking into the trees. ‘Hello?’

A tall, irregular shape emerged, black on black, from the trees. It had a looming quality and Ruby stared in disbelief.

‘Gerard!’ she said, hesitantly, anxiously ‘Gerard, is that you?’

But it wasn’t.

*

In the dining room, the phone began to shrill in time with the flashing of its eyes.

‘Oh, hey, guys, look at this! Great timing!’

He reached for the handset.

‘Hello?’

‘Gerard, hello?’ He heard a woman’s voice, familiar, but with an edge to it.  ‘Gerard?’

‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

‘Who’s that? Gerard, come and get me, the car’s stuck, in the ford near the woods…’

‘Ruby? Is that you?’ he asked, confused.

‘Is there anyone there? Hello?’ the woman’s voice, Ruby’s voice, asked.

‘Damn phone, no wonder it was cheap, she can’t hear me.  Hello?’ 

‘Gerard!’ the woman’s voice changed, became anxious.  ‘Gerard, is that you?’

‘Rubes, you okay?’

And then the screaming began.

A Moment of Calm... and People on Buses...

Today is the first day since Tuesday when I haven't had to go out, be somewhere, do something.  Don't get me wrong; I love the world outside my door and interacting with Leeds in all its strange glory.  Only there are moments when it's far more strange than it is glorious...

Take Thursday, for instance.

I'm presently recovering from injuries sustained when I took a  Superman-style dive off the set in a TV studio, and had an appointment at the Wellness Centre in Leeds with the osteopathy team there.  My current therapist is very, very good; in fact, he's Poster Boy for their advertising leaflet. Unlike his supervisor (and therefore my current specialist), O, he has warm hands.  In fact, I offered to lend O my gloves because her hands were so cold.  She laughed.  But she's a fan of Science Fiction and we swap authors and she reads some of my stuff.  But I digress.

I came away with my back more mobile and able to breathe more easily than I had for a while - being asthmatic, this is quite important.  I'd been hoping to go from there to visit my friend 2eH, but a combination of her having been poorly and me having to chase around town after a mislaid (and subsequently found) mobile phone made that impossible.

On my bus down from University to park Row, I took the one free seat.  It was one of those double-facing ones, and opposite me were two student girls who looked at me as if I'd done something very brave.

I soon found out why.  The other person on the seat was an unusually-dressed lady with a rough-as-gravel voice who was talking at the student girls.  They were trying to ignore her and yet, at the same time, not be rude.

'We've all got to go sometime,' the woman was saying.  'Our days are numbered.  When your time's up, that's it.  I've got me Rosary and me cross, so I ent worried...'

One of the girls, trying to hide a nervous smile, asked kindly: 'Oh.  Are you a Catholic?'

'No', said the woman.  There was a pause when she started on another topic of conversation.  'I had a wash this morning.  I washed me hair, and me body... down here...' (I was looking fixedly out of the window and so am unable to comment as to what this lady actually washed. But one of the Student Girls stifled a giggle.)

And then on the 42 in to town yesterday, there was a middle-aged+ chap at the back of the bus regaling his friends, very loudly, about a certain kind of dream he'd had.  Suffice it to say it hadn't been a dry one.

So I'm quite glad to be able to not go on a bus today; I'm not sure my nerves could stand it!

Sometimes, when you're a person who doesn't go out to work, it can feel as if your world is diminishing, as if your topics of conversation are shrinking.  You can even find yourself thinking you're becoming less interesting as a person.  This doesn't have to be the case, and if you're someone who is worried about this, my advice is this; go for a bus ride.  The 4 is usually good for some unusual characters, as is the 42.  But watch out for the Pigeon Man.  He's rather fragrant, but not in a good way.

One Hundred Poets

It's official; I've been formally invited to take part in 100 Poets.  This event is to celebrate the Rugby League World Cup and takes place at the Carnegie Stadium prior to the game between New Zealand and Papua, New Guinea on 8th November.

The programme last for around 30 minutes and includes performances of  well-known poems and our own work on topics of Physicality, Victory/Defeat, New Anthems (each poet will receive an individual commission for a specific nation) and Home.

All participating poets have been told to 'dress a little showily...' so it's out with the hat and on with my Inner Muse...

This will be the first time I've performed poetry in front of an audience in more than two years, and this is a much bigger event.  Whether or not we'll get much appreciation is NOT THE POINT; it's a chance to be part of a World Event and put myself out there, instead of staying quietly in here in the warm.

Better go; I've several poems to write...

Monday StoryTale...

To start the week on a creative note, Monday blogs are going to feature a short story, a piece of flash fiction, or a poem or two to showcase my work.  Some of these are older pieces, and some will be new.  Feedback is ALWAYS welcome.

 COMPETITION

Marcia fumed as she looked at the other entries in the ‘Design-A-Card’ category. The remit had been wide – to make a greetings card that a grandmother would appreciate – and there, amongst a dozen or more cards already displayed, was a card that was almost the double of the one she was about to place on the table; it was Lucy, it had to be! Nobody else knew Marcia’s style, nobody else had been taken into her confidence (and her craft room)… Lucy, her best friend for three years, had copied her idea.

She pushed her square-framed glasses higher up on the bridge of her freckled nose and fumed silently.  Entries were anonymous until after The Judging, and there was only twenty minutes of staging left before the exhibitors’ time was up and they would all have to leave the marquee. But there was no doubt in Marcia’s mind; Lucy had stolen her design.

But then again, Marcia realised, as she carefully unpacked her own entry and placed it tenderly in its allotted space, it didn’t really matter how good your ideas were, unless they were properly executed. You could lose points for sloppy presentation, for unruly finger marks or stray strings of glue…

It had been months ago that Marcia had decided on her initial design – ‘Ahoy, There’, a three dimensional decoupage of a boy and girl in sailor suits and beribboned hats standing looking out over railings on a seaside promenade. Out to sea is a small boat, and the boy was waving his hat vigorously in its direction; a joyfully-striped white and red lighthouse completed the seascape, and the whole picture was meant to evoke nostalgic seaside memories from the golden age of the British Holiday by the Sea.

From a dozen or more identical copies of the print, Marcia had painstakingly cut out elements from each, carefully trimming double-sided foam pads to insert between the layers, so that each feature stood out from the background to represent how near or far away it was; the boy and girl were made up of the most layers, standing in the foreground. She had carefully shaped each layer, too, so that the lighthouse was rounded and the boat’s hull had a tiny, but important curve to it. The whole picture was varnished with a clear acrylic coating and, to finish off, she had taken ages to produce a tiny piece of knitwear ( knitted on cocktail sticks with embroidery floss) that she placed as if tied around the boy’s middle.  It was something of a trademark with her, to include a small detail that would stand out and show her work to be more thoughtful than others.

Yes; Lucy aside, she was very pleased with her card and, to her mind, it stood out well amongst the rest of the exhibits.

Suddenly she found she was not alone; Lucy had the nerve to come to stand next to her.

‘Hi, Marcia,’ she said brightly.  ‘Look good, don’t they? I must say, it’s exciting, all this. My first show and I think I’ve done all right!’

It took Marcia a couple of goes of opening and closing her mouth before she could form a coherent sentence. Meanwhile, Lucy breezed on.

‘What a coincidence, us both doing the same thing! Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it?’ Marcia said acidly.

‘Well, what are the odds? Out of all the decoupage packs in all the craft shops in Chester, and we come up with the same one?’

‘Or,’ Marcia began sharply, ‘when you looked round my craft room you saw I was already working on ‘Ahoy, There!’ and decided to copy my idea…’

‘Oh, don’t be silly! Why would I do that?’ Lucy’s tone began brightly, but as she saw the fury in her friend’s eyes, she faltered a little, went on more gently.  ‘Look, Marcia! You had so many wonderful things in your craft room, I didn’t know what my eyes were doing half the time! Maybe I did see your card…’

‘Aha!’

‘…and maybe it lodged in my subconscious, and so when I went to buy a decoupage pack, I was drawn to the same one.  But I didn’t actually plan on copying, you know. Why would I?’

‘Well…’

Marcia began to thaw. After all, Lucy was younger, and less thoughtful, and they’d been friends for so long, it seemed a shame to cause a fuss and spoil the friendship.  Besides, her own card was much better.

‘It was a mistake, Marcia, honestly! Look, if it really bothers you, I’ll withdraw from the competition, how about that?’

‘No, don’t bother!’ Marcia said with a sigh.  ‘But you can buy me tea and cake to make up for it!’

‘Okay, you’re on!’

Behind her friendly smile, Lucy gave a mental sigh of relief.  There was a part of her that had been surprised that Marcia had connected the duplicate card with her; Marcia was obviously quicker on the uptake than you’d expect to look at her.

‘I have to say, Marcia,’ she began thoughtfully as she looked at the displayed entries again.  ‘Raised decoupage cards seem to be in the minority…’

‘Yes,’ Marcia, veteran of dozens of county shows   ‘There does seem to have been a falling off lately. I think it’s since it’s costs more to send thicker things through the post…’

Lucy looked at her in surprise.  ‘Will that matter?’

‘It might…’

The two young women began frantically scrambling in their handbags, Marcia for a pen and Lucy for a tape measure.

‘What’s the limit, do you know?’ Lucy asked.

‘Standard thickness less than six mill, I think,’ Marcia said, hastily adding a line to her description of the card on its entry form.

‘Oh, thank goodness, just in!’ Lucy said with relief and added, with a hint of venom in her voice, ‘glad I didn’t do as many layers as you did…’

‘That’s fine, Lucy,’ Marcia said breezily. ‘Mine’s to be hand-delivered; let’s get that tea and cake while the judging starts!’

As the results wouldn’t be announced until the early afternoon, there was plenty of time for tea and cake and gossip. If Marcia was a little wary at first in her attitude to Lucy, Lucy was magnanimous enough not to show that she’d noticed and within half an hour, Marcia had thawed completely and, beginning to feel guilty, had invited Lucy to lunch the following week to make amends.

The show was small and the weather, typically British, mixed in cool sunshine, breezy air and threatening showers so the presence of several marquees with floral arrangements, vegetable displays and cake competitions provided shelter in the damper intervals of the day.

Finally it was time and they made their way back to the marquee, arriving  just as the waiting entrants were being allowed in; there was a flurry and a rush as everyone made for their own entries to read the little result cards.  Lucy hadn’t placed – the judges’ comments on the card told her she had too few layers and her edges were imprecise, but with a whoop of delight, Marcia saw she’d got second with a commendation for her knitted detail and her forethought in mentioning that the card was not to be trusted to the post.

‘Sorry you didn’t place, Marcia said, unloading a tray - she'd bought tea and cakes this time. ‘But don’t be disappointed – better luck next time!’

 Lucy smiled bravely. ‘I didn’t really enter to try to win,’ she said.  ‘I just wanted to take part. What about cakes? I might try the cake competition for the next one show. Do you ever go in for the cake competitions?’

'Actually, no,' Marcia replied.  But maybe she should start...

Alterations...

One of my friends claims that housework does not come naturally to her.  Nor to me. At the moment, I'm hampered by the fact that I bruised the heads of my ribs and so driving a heavy vacuum cleaner across the grain of our very thick pile carpet is impossible.

Added to that, we're in confusion anyway. Our friend C (in future to be referenced as OFC) has come over to help us with some alterations.  Two wall lights, one in each alcove of the dining room. are being decommissioned and capped off so we can bring a bookcase down from upstairs... and this entails selling one of my treasured glass display cabinets.

How I ended up with three of the things is a long story.  I've owned one of them three, a lovely Deco piece, for about thirty years, but needed something when I sold my fish tanks to fill the void left by no aquariums.  Now, with the plan of moving the bookcase, we need the alcove free again.

So everything is all over the place and therefore my mood is, too.  OFC is a really kind friend, but he's not easy. he's deaf, and has some unique perspectives, but he's also the kindest person we know.

Presently, there is a defunct light fitting on the other sofa.  The second is on the WiiFit board.  The contents of my soon-to-be-on-Ebay glass case are on the dining table.  And in the Deco glass case, jostling for position with my Cow Parade figures... some of which are also soon to be on Ebay; I'm culling the herd, just a little.

My OH has got the day off to 'help', and I'm supplying him and OFC with tea, ignoring the scary noises (and there are too many scary noises) and trying to keep out of the way...

Other alterations...

I'm currently editing a short story I've written for the end-of-year anthology, probably to be called 'In Sight of Fallen Walls'.  It's an odd little thing, it didn't turn out at all the way I'd intended it to; it's rather darker and more substantial than I expected, and has taken me into some unusual research along the way.  I like it, though.  It was well-received at 'Writers in the Rafters' on Thursday.

And WITR is subject to alterations of its own.  Our meeting room had been booked by another group so we'll either have to change day or change rooms.  Nothing is ever simple.

On a lighter note, we're meant to be going out for tea tonight... if IFC remembers he's promised to take us!

What You Wish For...

Tomorrow is my son's birthday.  He will be thirtysomething and I utterly refute, reject, and deny the notion that I am old enough to have a thritysomething son.  He phoned me on Tuesday in the wake of very uncomfortable dental treatment for a little motherly sympathy, and, once I'd cheered him up (I hope...) we got on to the topic of his birthday -  he's coming today, rather than tomorrow, as we have someone coming to do some electrical work - and we talked about what he will or will not be able to eat, given the current hole in his mouth.

Since we resonate, as a family, in the Whovian spectrum, it didn't take long for the topic of Fish Custard to come up.  Now, as a former aquarist, I can't bring myself to eat fish, not even their fingers (which they've obviously evolved beyond) and so I need to find an alternative.

I also need to construct a Birthday Cake.

Sometimes it's a nuisance being a writer; it makes me imaginative...

Watch this space; photos of vegetarian Fish Custard will surely follow.

It made my son laugh.

I always try to make him a cake, and I enjoyed baking this - actually two cakes, a basic sponge for the base and a chocolate cake sliced and iced to make the fish fingers.

So, for those who are not followers of Doctor Who, there is an episode where the Doctor eats fish fingers and custard.

Works in Progress

Anyone who gets an email from me will be unable to ignore my signature; it's a list of my Works in Progress and is always far too long.  Some of the titles are there to remind me, to nag, even, that I have to get back to them, some day.  Others are projects I've set aside to come back to, pending research, percolation, or simply because I have a new, fresh, burning idea that needs to be released onto the page.

But the list does change; often, there are short stories for competitions, or for one or other of the two writer's groups I go to.  And sometimes - just sometimes - one of the titles will move.

Presently, my sig looks like this:

Currently Writing:

Slim Girls Don't Stitch, a Novel

The Everdeath Effect - a sequel to 'The Personators'

The Peaceweavers - a Dark Age novel of love and betrayal

Talisman  - the story of a Minoan bull-dancer

'The Night Stairs' A short story for Writers in the Rafter's Year End anthology.

Currently Editing:

'Fallen' From an idea by Terry Moran.

Currently Reading:

Emily Bronte

Seutonius' 'Lives of the Emperors'.

Irvine Welsh 'Trainspotting'

Currently Promoting: 

'The Sundered' by Gill Moran - now available on Amazon.co.uk

Last night, I finished the last title on the Currently Writing list; 'The Night Stairs', now renamed 'One for Sorrow'.  It will be presented to Writers in the Rafters tomorrow and then submitted to the year-end anthology. And then it's time to get on with my edit of 'Fallen'.

Friends make grey days brighter...

Today was a cool and murky Tuesday in Leeds.  My normal day would have had me spending time writing - I currently have a short story to finish for Thursday, and a second-draft novel to edit.

But today I had a day off to visit my friend S who lives in a semi rural village a forty minute bus ride away. Factor in a twenty minute walk, and you don't need telling she's a very dear friend; I wouldn't go to all that trouble for just a casual acquaintance...

Besides which, she makes an excellent Sweet Potato and Lamb stew.

There was also her dog. We have this little game going; Dog pretends to be scared of me, I pretend I don't care if Dog hates me or not.  Within minutes, Dog remembers I'm her Best Friend Ever... until I go home and then come back, by which time I've been relegate back to the ranks of Evil Human again.

S isn't my only friend; I consider myself very fortunate in that respect.  I have a little nucleus of writer friends; we meet up a couple of times a month - and several former work colleagues with whom I have lunch, or visit, or have visit me.  They are all very different characters, and if I put them in a room together, I'm not sure if the result would be Best Party Ever or a disaster movie... it never ceases to surprise me how one individual can be part of friendships to into many different lives.

Friends are a blessing.

Friends who cook for me, doubly so.

You know who you are...