The Pages
Issue 4
Jan/Feb 2009
The Pages
Contents
Editorial Marit and Stina........................................................................................................................................ 4
Competition Results The Memorial Trees ................................................................................................................................ 9 Mr Theophillus...................................................................................................................................... 10
Articles Aldergrove Airport, Northern Ireland ................................................................................................... 12 A Train Journey Through the Cambrian Mountains ............................................................................. 18 The Wet Wipe Revolution .................................................................................................................... 16
Poetry The Light & Dark of the British Cityscape ........................................................................................... 14 Feeding Time ........................................................................................................................................ 20
Flash Fiction Mrs Jones..................................................................................................................................13 I See Nothing At The End
and... Anna, Me and the Empty Page.............................................................................................................. 23
... and more About The Letters ................................................................................................................................. 26
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The Pages
Contributors
Marit (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales,UK in 1972. Married, with 6 daughters and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front - but makes time for writing. She’s had comments, articles, poems, true-life stories and short stories published, as well as having work in anthologies published in aid of charities. Marit has just completed her first novel, and is still stunned by the fact that she managed to do so after several attempts where she ‘dried up’ two thirds of the way in. It is being published through YouWriteOn/Legend Press. Visit her website and check out The Challenge. www.freewebs.com/annareiers/
Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian mother and Welsh father. A brief interlude to London to study fashion, didn’t quell the cravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or fjords - it just added to her identity crisis. Now a mother to a very lively and curious 14 month old boy, life keeps her very busy. Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write. The Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with likeminded souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition.
Fiona Robyn is a writer and blogger living in Hampshire with her partner, cats and vegetable patch. Her three debut novels will be published by Snowbooks: ‘The Letters’ in March 2009, ‘The Blue Handbag’ in August 2009 and ‘Thaw’ in February 2010. her other books include ‘A Year of Questions: How to slow down and fall in love with life and ‘small stones: a year of moments’. Her daily blog is at ‘a small stone’ and her blog about being a writer is at ‘Planting Words’. Her main site is at www.fionarobyn.com. She can be contacted at Fiona@fionarobyn.com. She is currently growing potatoes, learning Russian and investigating Zen thought. Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. Having lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, she speaks five and half languages, describing herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’ She explains her itinerant life by saying: ‘Some lead; others follow.’ She recently took up writing, and her articles have featured in diverse publications. Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, making each new destination a real home. She lived in Montevideo between 2004 and 2008, but is in the process of relocating to Belgium. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/ Rosa Johnson was born in Hampshire. She taught agriculture and animal husbandry. She is married to a horticulturist and has two grown up children. Writing has been a hobby since she was in her teens. She wrote (writes) short plays, dialogues and character studies for children. Short stories, articles and several attempts at novels came much later. Keen sportswoman until her spine rebelled; she was forced to adopt a more sedentary way of life when surgery failed in 1986. Rosa must now be content to follow international tennis, rugby and cricket on the radio. She’s a dabbler and will have a go at anything. Sewing, bonzai-ing, decorating, art and crafts, acting, writing. Anything but singing! Her ambition is one day to find that she can excel at something.
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Linda Mary Price is a minister in the Presbyterian Church in Wales and also a writer and composer. She has written and composed several pieces for choral work as well as children’s musicals, based on Biblical themes. Her work has been performed in many venues locally, and she has also ‘appeared’ on radio. She is passionate about animals’ rights and the need for us to take an active part in looking after God’s earth and everything in it. Jean began her career as a freelance writer in the early 1980s. Her work has been published in many UK magazines and newspapers – including SHE, The Lady, My Weekly, Sports Industries, and Church Times – as well as in writing and travel e-zines. Now she showcases some of her work on constant-content.com and has made a number of sales there. Jean believes the writing life is very different now, with so many supportive on-line communities and websites like The Apprentice Writer – a far cry from the writer’s isolation only a couple of decades ago. Until recently, Jean’s writing has been slotted in beside teaching and marketing projects. Now she has retired from these sidelines and is rejoicing in the freedom to write as much as she wants. www.jakilljeansmusings.blogspot.com Trevor Belshaw has, after years of talking about it, finally taken up the writer’s challenge. He was born in Ilkeston, Derbyshire, in 1953, but moved to Nottinghamshire after he left school in 1970. His working life has, in his own words, seen him ‘change careers with alarming regularity’, although for the last 12 years he has been working for himself, building, repairing and upgrading computers after getting a City and Guilds award in the subject. The urge to write, however, remains. His passions include his dogs (Molly and Maisie; a constant source of inspiration for his writing) and Nottingham Forest Football Club. www.trevorbelshaw.com (Under construction.)
Myra King is an Australian writer living in Ballarat Victoria. Between 1980 and 2003 she wrote for several Australian magazines and had a fortnightly advice column in a Tampa Bay (Florida) newspaper. Most recently she was lucky enough to be awarded first prize in the UK-based Global Short Story Competition and shortlisted for the EJ Brady Short Story Award. Her stories, articles and poetry have been published in the UK, Australia, USA and New Zealand. myra1055@gmail.com
Marilyn Sylvester BA (Hons) is a part-time FE tutor and her first teaching assignment was as a Community Outreach Tutor within her home town of Guisborough, where she was employed by the local college, in collaboration with the University of Teesside, to facilitate a creative writing course. The course mainly attracted established writers and Marilyn says: ‘Whereas I lacked experience, was neither a writer nor established, the challenge fuelled my desire to spend more time writing.’ She then became part of an editorial team that produce a community magazine entitled: Guisborough Life and joined the online Writelink community for writers. She has so far had two poems published and been paid. Some of her poems have also been shortlisted.
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The Pages
Editorial
It doesn’t seem long since we published the first issue of The Pages, but despite delays and set-backs (including both our laptops biting the dust), here we are with issue 4. Again we had plenty of submissions, and have had to keep some back for Issue 5. A big thank you to everyone and a special thank you to Linda M. Price who judged the Photo Story and Photo Poetry competition, and congratulations to our winners, Marilyn Sylvester, for her poem ‘Memorial Trees’ and to Rosa Johnson for her story ‘Mr Theophillus’, also to Marie Fullerton Barrett for achieving a second place in both competitions. You can read ‘Memorial Trees’ and ‘Mr Theophillus’ in this issue, and ‘Night Spirit’ and ‘Night Spirit Fairy Tale’ in Issue 5. The next competition will be announced in Issue 5. We have moved from publishing the magazine as a PDF file, to producing it as a virtual magazine through Issuu, and we feel that it has improved the appearance of the magazine itself, as well as keeping up with the current technology, and trust that you agree. As you may know, not everything went to plan, but that’s life – and we are novices in this game. Our apologies for all and any hiccups! We didn’t achieve the full 24 stories that we had hoped for, for The Stories for Advent on The Apprentice Writer site, but with 19 stories posted up, we didn’t do too bad, thanks in no small way to our regular contributor, Rosa Johnson. There’s still time to add stories, as we have almost a year to the intended e-book publishing time (in time for Christmas ’09), so feel free (well, it’s worth a try)! We would also like to thank Fiona Robyn for her interview. She has given us great insight into her writing life and her path to becoming a published author. Don’t miss it! Happy New Year to you all, and enjoy the read!
Marit and Stina
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The Pages
Submissions
In each issue we aim to publish at least two poems, two short stories, an essay or open article, an article on the Writing Life – from any angle – a travel article and a piece of Flash Fiction (up to 500 words), minimum. Times New Roman, font 12 point, preferred. An opinion piece (or call it a ‘rant’) would be good, too – and we’d like to see book reviews and extracts. Humour is always welcome. If you have an idea for a series for future issues, we would welcome suggestions – and we would also like to see some illustrations. In short, we’ll consider all suggestions and contributions that come our way. We cannot offer payment as of yet, but aim to do so in the future, depending on incoming revenue.
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The Pages
Interview
Interview with Fiona Robyn Fiona, your first book is due to be published soon, with another two hot on its heels. What, or who, inspired you to become a writer in the first place? For me, reading always comes first. Like most children I loved books, and I just kept reading. I read poetry for many years before I attempted my first poem, and wrote poetry for at least five years before I thought I'd write a novel as 'an experiment'. It's difficult to know how else to say it, but writing is centrally important to me. Did you spend a lot of time reading as a child, and did you have a favourite book or author? Roald Dahl was a big favourite, but I also read a LOT of Enid Blyton, and lots of moralistic books about girls boarding schools. Today's equivalent of the trashy crime novels I much enjoy! Can you remember the first thing you ever wrote? I wrote my first poem about my current partner, thirteen years ago, but before that I was stapling together folded pieces of paper and writing novels. They rarely progressed beyond the first five pages - beginnings always seemed to feel more exciting. Do you have a special place where you do your writing, or any writing rituals? I write at my desk in my very tiny office (I can touch both walls with my outstretched arms) on my lovely blue laptop. I do light a candle before I start writing, and blow it out when I've finished. This is an attempt to keep me away from checking email while I'm in the middle of a difficult sentence! You have achieved what many of us are still striving for. Can you tell us about your particular road to publication? I was lucky enough to find an agent shortly after completing my first novel, Thaw, but we couldn't find a publisher for it and we eventually parted ways. I continued looking for an agent without any luck, and five years later (this is the short version of the story!) I had three completed manuscripts. I sent them through to Snowbooks, who prefer to deal with writers directly rather than through an agent. They said they liked them - and that was that. What inspires your writing now, as opposed to when you started to write seriously? Different writing comes from different places. When something happens, I write a piece for my Planting Words blog. When I notice something tiny, I write 'a small stone' for my 'small stone' blog. My novels always come from a central character - they appear in my mind, I slowly get to know them, and I write their story down. I'd say 1% of my writing is inspiration, and the rest is more like ordinary work! How long did it take to write your first book, and did it set the pace for future work? I tend to write my first draft in 1000 word blocks every day, and this results in a TERRIBLE first draft which needs much more work. So far they've taken a year to a couple of years each. We all approach our writing in different ways, and the advice out there is diverse, to say the least. Can you tell us a bit about the writing of your first novel and the inspiration behind it? 6
I was 'lucky' in that I hadn't had any advice before I started my first novel. I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I think this helped me to write MY novel, rather than what I thought I ought to write. I just sat down and wrote something every day about my character and what she was doing, thinking, feeling. And then I went back and tried to say it better - and then again, and then again! Do you have any top tips for those who have chosen the writer’s path? Read Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, Brenda Ueland's So You Want To Write and Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down The Bones. Get support from writing colleagues. Look after yourself. Try not to get hooked by the idea that publication would solve all the problems in your life. Write for the joy of writing. When you are not writing, what are your favourite ways to relax and enjoy yourself? We moved to the country a few years ago and I'm very much enjoying growing my own veg. I like to watch the birds at our bird feeder. I try and meditate a little every day. Reading, reading, reading! And to give a more balanced picture, I love watching CSI (the gorier the better), eating chocolate, and taking long lunches with friends instead of working. Having achieved the status of published novelist, what is your ambition for the near future – and long term? I would love to keep writing. I would love it if some people enjoy reading my novels. As for the rest - it's not for me to say! To find out about Fiona’s novel ‘The Letters’ www.fionarobyn.com/theletters.htm ...and her blog www.plantingwords.com
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The Pages
Competition
Competition Results After some delays, for which we apologise, we are finally able to announce the winners of our Photo Story and Photo Poetry Competitions. The entries were of high quality and our judge, Linda M. Price, had her work cut out to pick the winners. In the end Rosa Johnson’s Mr Theophillus was a clear winner in the short story competition, while Marilyn Sylvester won the first prize for poetry, with The Memorial Trees, closely followed by Marie Fullerton Barrett, with The Night Spirit. Marie also took second place in the short story competition with Night Spirit Fairy Tale. Congratulatons Rosa, Marilyn and Marie, and well done! A big thank you to Linda, our judge, for accepting the task, and to our eminent winners for their excellent entries, as well as to everyone who took part in the competition. The winning poem is published on the following page, followed by the winning story.
With thanks to Emma Meredith for the use of the photograph.
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The Memorial Trees I thought of autumn when Normandy veterans lowered their flags and a bugler began to play the Last Post… and of memorial trees trooping the seasonal colours with leaves all emblazed to celebrate their living victories before they fall and rest in peace on waiting ground that root those treasured memories. I thought of autumn and remembered my arm was tucked tenderly in yours as you fondly recalled lost comrades when we walked through the woods… and of memorial trees as the late sun’s luminous shawls enshrine them with burning pride to commemorate their living histories before they fall and rest in peace on waiting ground that root those treasured memories. I thought of autumn and remembered you saying how the mourning trees were like ageing soldiers reliving their fading memories… and of Normandy veterans who raised their flags to proudly honour your passing - Grandpa as a bugler played the Reveille.
© Marilyn Sylvester
The judge’s comment: ‘I loved the way that the old soldiers were like the trees, and viceversa. The writer sees both as equal beings who belong to and return to the earth. Beautiful.’
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Mr Theophillus Simon leaned against a tree trunk. His parents had had a row; now he’d had it up to here. His Mum had packed a suitcase. Though he was old enough to know, neither of them had said what was going on. They should have told him. It was his right to know. As though nothing untoward had happened his mother had handed him his packed lunch expecting him to go to school as usual. Well he wouldn’t bloody go. He’d stay in the woods all day and go back when he felt like it. When she’d gone. He kicked at the golden leaves on the ground.
Hands in his pockets, wishing he knew what was going on at home, he slid down the tree into a squatting position. He took his lunch box out of his school bag and looked in it. If he ate a sandwich now, he might be hungry later. Well, what did it matter? He took one out. He looked at the two brown slices and saw there was lettuce and cheese between them, and some of his favourite salad dressing. Things weren’t so bad. He was opening his mouth wide to take a bite, anticipating the sharp flavour of the vinaigrette, when he heard a voice. 'Hey! Watch it. Those are formidable gnashers you’ve got there.' Instead of closing his teeth round the crusts Simon took the sandwich out of his mouth and peered at it. Somebody must be playing a joke on him? He looked around. He wasn’t expecting to hear disembodied voices, while sitting in a wood miles from anywhere. He stared at the sandwich and saw only two slices of crusty brown bread and elements of green salad, between his fingers, so he opened his mouth again. 'Do you mind? You could do me an injury if those gnashers came together with me between 'em! As if it wasn't bad enough being stuffed in here in the first place, I've already had oil poured over me and been wrapped up like a dog's dinner.' 'It's my dinner, if you don't mind,’ Simon retorted, immediately feeling very foolish. ‘And if it's not a rude question, why are you in it?' — He didn’t believe in little people, so why was he talking to this one? Simon studied the sandwich and thought he saw it move. Then the slices parted at one end and from underneath a lettuce leaf scrambled a little green man. He sat on the edge of the bottom slice swinging his legs. ‘Bloody ‘ell!’ ‘That’s not a very nice greeting,’ said the little man, ‘I’m not used to language like that.’ ‘And I’m not used to finding live stock in my sandwiches,’ Simon said. ‘Tell me I’m dreaming, please?’ ‘Of course you aren’t dreaming. Your mother was in a bit of tear this morning and she didn’t wash the lettuce properly, that’s all. 'Do you think I asked to be dragged out of the garden, squashed between two slices of bread and almost pickled alive? What would you do if you found yourself compromised like this?' The little man jumped down. ‘My name’s Mr Theophillus by the way. Call me Theo.’ Simon bit into his sandwich again. Crunch! 'What was that?' he said retracting his teeth. ‘That’ll be the snail. Your Mum missed him too. A darned nuisance he was; wouldn’t let me sleep, while we were waiting to be unwrapped.’ ‘Look, do you mind if I eat my sandwich? Why don’t you just clear off?’ ‘No, I’m staying. I’d like to go back to your Dad’s vegetable patch. My family are there.’ ‘I don’t believe this is happening.’ Simon said. ‘Well, you better had or I’ll have to give you something to prove I’m real.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Like a black eye, or a tooth knocked out.’ ‘Forget it. I’m not into that sort of thing. I’m upset. I’ve skipped off school and there’ll be Hell to pay if anyone finds out.’ ‘They won’t find out,’ said the little man. ‘Oh, so you know do you?’ 10
‘Yes, I do. I’ll see you don’t have any trouble.’ Simon chewed his sandwich. It tasted good despite its history. ‘I suppose you know why Mum missed cleaning the lettuce this morning.’ ‘Yes. She was a bit strung up. She’d ordered a taxi.’ ‘Dad wouldn’t approve of that.’ ‘He didn’t, and it was ‘a must’, because he wouldn’t give her a lift to keep her date.’ ‘Mum had a date? Wow!’ ‘Yes, with a TV station. She’s going on a quiz show.’ He looked up at the sun through the bare branches of the trees. ’Just about now.’ ‘Mum’s going on a quiz show! You’ve got to be joking!’ ‘I am not joking. She’s going to win £10,000.’ ‘Never!’ ‘Oh, yes she is. She’s clever isn’t she?’ ‘Well, not bad.’ ‘Her general knowledge is extremely good. She’ll win a large sum of money for an ungrateful husband who didn’t want her to,’ he chuckled, ‘He said she’d be making an exhibition of herself.’ ‘He’ll be glad enough of the money. He told me to go steady because money’s scarce, just now.’ ‘You’re right. By the time he gets home he’ll be beside himself, wondering how he’s going to pay the bills.’ ‘And Bingo! Mum’s got a cheque for 10,000 quid. Theo you’re a star!’ ‘It’s not my doing, son. It’s just one way a Mum can sort out family problems when Dads can’t manage it. They’ll make ends meet now and soon things will be looking up again, you’ll see. When you get home she’ll be there and your school bus will be stopping at the end of the road.’ Theo climbed into Simon’s school bag. ‘I want to know why Mum packed a suitcase?’ Simon said. ‘Ask her when you get in,’ said Theo, ‘Perhaps she felt the need to make your Dad sit up and take notice. Do you mind if I have a kip now? I’ve had a heavy day.’
© Rosa Johnson
The judge’s comment: ‘ … As for Simon in the story, I felt his despair. I loved the intrigue: was the boy reassuring himself by imagining Mr Theophillus? Was it his wishful thinking that mum was going on a quiz show and that everyone would be happy at last? Clever! We'll only know when we hear that mum has won £10,000! Simon will have Mr T. for company otherwise.’
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The Pages
Travel Article
Aldergrove Airport, Northern Ireland We are on our way to catch a flight to Edinburgh, Scotland, the second leg of our holiday. Suddenly the next four weeks of living out suitcases, imposing on friends and relatives, looms like an inevitable recurring nightmare. Just as we get into hired car I collapse in tears: “I can’t take holidays. I can’t take moves. Just leave me here and go.” But I manage to pull myself together and practice deep yogic breathing all the way to the airport. At the airport we return the hired car and check in. I have no idea what time our flight is leaving, but feel that we must have plenty of time. I vaguely look at the “Departures” monitor but nothing registers. I feel stressed, and guilty that I feel stressed, and more guilty that I feel guilty. I need some time out. I see a Boots pharmacy. Okay, I’ll go shopping. “Where will I meet you?” I ask him. “On the plane,” he jokes. I’m on autopilot, and my legs take me to the hair-removal section in Boots. Excellent idea. I’ll wax my legs. That’ll be therapeutic. I buy a packet of leg wax. I go to the Ladies’, open up the packet, take off my shoes and socks, roll up my jeans, lift my leg up onto the edge of the sink, and start waxing. The stickiness, the ripping sound, the black hairs on the strips, the bald patches on my legs, are all satisfying. This feels good. A woman comes in, goes into a cubicle. She comes out a minute or two later, and leaves, not appearing to notice me. Then another. Same routine. I’m surprised. I have never seen anyone waxing legs in a public washroom: I’m sure I would make some comment if I did. I see a sign on the wall above a dispenser. “Durex, now easy-on.” What was it before, I wonder? Hard-on? Every now and then there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker, all for a flight to Glasgow. I keep waxing. The announcements progress from “This is a boarding call for flight…” to “Final boarding call for flight…” to “Last call for Mr Hamish McGowan traveling to Glasgow….” I finish one leg, and as I’m mopping up the excess wax with an oily wipe, I am impressed: I had thought that all airports had cut back on departure calls in an effort to empower the passenger, but Aldergrove still helps you get your plane. A tall woman with a blonde crew cut comes in, goes into a cubicle, comes out, and as she washes her hands, asks me: “Does it hurt?” Not: “Why didn’t you wax them before you left?” or “Why don’t you wait till you get to where you’re going?” “No, not at all – in fact it’s quite therapeutic,” I answer, ripping another strip off. It’s true. I feel calm. And remorseful about my earlier bad form. I will reassure him afterwards that it’s just a symptom of my menopausal moods, and all will be well now that I have smooth legs. I finish the second leg, wipe away the remaining bits of wax, roll down my jeans, and start putting on some makeup. Yes, I’ve cracked this. A bit of pampering is all it takes. I see my hair in the mirror – quite streaky – must be yesterday’s Donegal sun on my henna. I like it. Hey, this is fun. The loudspeaker. I jump. “This is the final call for passenger Paola Fornari travelling to Edinburgh on Easyjet Flight 487. Please proceed immediately to Gate 14 as the flight is now fully boarded and the gate is closing.” “Fully boarded?” What does that mean? Hang on! Where were the first call and the second call and all the other pre-fully-boarded calls? I look around me. Shoes and socks on the floor, wax strips in the sink, oily wipes, mascara, hairbrush…no doubt Gate 14 is a mile or two away….Oh no, here we go … © Paola Fornari
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Flash Fiction
Mrs. Jones When I stepped outside that evening, I glanced over the fence to see if my handiwork had done the trick. It came as a bit of a surprise to see Mrs. Jones laid out on the patio cold and stiff. ‘It's just a crust or two,’ she said when I complained. My clean washing covered in crows' crap. I smiled and said nothing. Then the bird table appeared. ‘I just love to watch the birds in the garden,’ she said, as I watched them launch an aerial attack on mine. So I took the items one by one from her washing line, silently marvelling at how oddly pristine they were. She looked a little puzzled, distressed even at the strange disappearance of her nylons and knickers, not to mention the blouse, skirt and hideous cardigan she insisted on wearing all year round. It wasn't any less than she deserved. I stuffed, stitched and moulded, and made it a good likeness too, if I do say so myself. I look at the scarecrow now looming over her, my unfortunate muse – yes, it is indeed a good likeness.
I see nothing I am sixteen years old and I am listening to Annie Lennox’s ‘Little bird’ at full blast on my personal stereo. My heartbeat is pounding hard in my ears as I pass into the tunnel of trees. The leaves crackle and scrunch beneath my feet and now I feel the shadows shifting and I can’t be certain that it’s just the movement of the trees. I have walked this path a thousand times; in snow, in rain, by the first shards of dawn. But it is now, when the black tar of night seeps over me that I feel fear fasten around me like a heavy cloak. I can hear nothing now but the pounding of the music and my heartbeat, but I can feel the hissing of whispers on my neck. I can see only shades of black, but the shifting shapeless shadows seem to be moving purposefully. Now I am staring into the blackness, and I see nothing, but I feel it turn and now it’s watching me. I screw my eyes shut, I pray and I run.
At the End If I had the stove in, I would say, ‘The kettle’s boiling, pull it to one side darling, that whistling could drive a man to madness.’ If the wind were blowing, whipping up a gale outside, pushing through the cracks, permeating the very bones of our little house, I would say ‘turn the set up darling, that howling is getting to much to bear.’ But the stove is cold and the wind is still. So instead I stroke your soft cheek and feel the softness of your pillow against it, and know that I’ve been driven to madness, because it has become too much to bear. And so I say, ‘Goodbye my darling.’ ©Kristina JJ Meredith
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Poetry
The Light & Dark of the British Cityscape An explosion of light fragments the darkness obliterating the stars. Streets, overrun by cars all day, slow down at night demonstrating an aptitude for change and a chance of respite. Theatres, casinos and restaurants abound with lights, street neons beam down on citizens browns, yellows, blacks and whites; surly youths get into bloody fights, rearranging the pecking order of gangs seeking supremacy. They roar onto the scene in fancy motors, tyres screeching, head lamps blazing, spurred on by the addictive cost of their life style. It’s more than anyone can handle. Guns, fast cars, drugs, burglary, women. They need real money to buy the brands they wear; the labels are all genuine; and the web is wide. A shot rings out away from the light A shot that ricocheted into the night. A life is lost and the kid who died, as always, the one who never lied, was good at school and loved his Mum. ‘He never caused no trouble,’ yet his bubble burst, when the shot from the gun sought him out in the city. The sound of feet can still be heard, running away; retreating into the distance, in the early hours of the next new day; running, running away.
© Rosa Johnson
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Poetry
IN PRAISE OF FRANCE The French are such a generous race, and France has given so much to Britain and the British, like knickers, beans and such. French knitting and French cricket, French polish, chalk and bread, French dressing on the salad and a duvet on the bed. Praise horns and drains and windows, with all the verve you can, and I am sure we all adore the jolly onion man. The French donated cabaret and cherchez la (bonne) femme, French letters, leave, and mustard, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. For parapluies praises, and other objets d'art like enigmatic ladies, and ballet at the barre. Let's praise the can-can dancers, les moules and ormolu, and praise the jolly onion man for he's no parvenu. Praise Hugo, Dumas and Bizet, praise Degas and Lautrec, French romance, wine and roses, Camembert and Pont l'EvĂŞque. Praise omelettes and l'escargots, Georges Feydeau, French Champagne, the little singing "Sparrow" 'neath the bridges of the Seine. The famous Foreign Legion, Blondin, Curie, Pasteur, and the onion man's still calling His tearful cri-de-coeur. Of course French architecture too deserves a word of praise, petits fours and mots adopted like pourboire and post-chaise. Praise chauffeur, gateau, nougat, also the corps de dance, The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, bombardier, bonhomie, bonnes chances. And praise the onion vendor, beret and bicyclette, who is for me, a Francophile, a charming French vignette.
Š Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Article
The Wet Wipe Revolution By Jean Knill In recent years there has been a wipe revolution. It’s true; wet wipes have revolutionised the way we live today. It all began with baby wipes, which were alone for a while. After they were joined by computer and telephone wipes, and houseplant leaf wipes, there was another hiatus. And suddenly the shelves in our shops were sprouting all sorts: kitchen wipes; bathroom wipes; floor wipes; wooden furniture wipes; window cleaning wipes; make-up-removing facial wipes; hand wipes; doggy wipes; even adult bottom wipes you can flush away. The latest incarnations I’ve discovered are wipes for car windscreens, repelling insects and correcting fake tan mistakes. And now I have a “Magic Cloth” that cleans and shines just about everything, including the ornamental brass kettles my husband has collected over the years. I asked for comments from my family and friends. “We never go on a family picnic these days without packing some hand wipes. You never know where the kid’s fingers have been.” “Our Lulu loves to smear banana on the carpet or my chair covers and she thinks the walls are just there for her crayon pictures. Thank goodness her baby wipes get it all off again.” “They’re really handy in public toilets, much nicer than touching germ laden taps to get water to wash and then braving the germs again afterwards to stem the flow. How often have you waited long enough for your hands to actually dry in a stream of hot air? Or picked off tiny bits of disintegrated toilet tissue after dabbing off the water from your fingers?” Not everyone likes them though. One friend said, “I bought some and used them once, then put them away in the cleaning cupboard and forgot them. When I found them again months later, they were completely dried out - no use at all.” Well, I’ve tried most of them, and I’m a wipe convert. They save me so much time and effort. When I had my babies, we had to make do with bowls of warm water and cotton wool; I find it so much easier to deal with my grandchildren. My home is much cleaner these days when jobs that I used to put off – because they involved finding buckets of water and mops, or dusters and polish – can be done in a trice with a wipe. I really don’t mind getting down on my knees with a wipe-covered sponge; I know it will only be minutes before I’m on my feet again. More recently, mindful of the environmental issues as well as the effect on my finances, I don’t use so many. But I can’t revert to the old ways. The wipes I do buy must have multi-functions. Those I use for the laminate floor are equally efficient on skirting boards and walls, or for removing finger marks from light switches. And last thing at night, after removing my makeup with one side of my facial wipe, I turn it over and carefully wipe it round the rim of the loo.
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The pages
Poetry
A Childhood Memory (as told to one of our contributors, by her mum, over 65 years ago)
When Dad was ill my mother said, Don't make a noise, for Dad's in bed, In bed with influenza. I crept upstairs, like a mouse would creep, to see if Daddy was asleep and round the door I tried to peep, to look at Influenza. I only saw, dear Daddy's head, on the pillow, on the bed, he was alone, yet mother said, he was with Influenza.
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The Pages
Travel Article
A Train Journey Through the Cambrian Mountains Riding the Scenic Railway from Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth Š Marc Latham
The mid-Wales Cambrian railway line not only provides the quickest route from central England to the Welsh west coast; it also offers scenic mountains and estuary views. If you travel from central England to the west coast of Wales you are in for a treat, as there is superb scenery almost all the way. Mountains on the England-Wales border Leaving the historic and pleasant town of Shrewsbury it is nine miles to the England-Wales border, and you soon see the first high peaks of the journey on your right while approaching Welshpool, which is four miles into Wales. The landscape visible from the train then returns to one of rolling hills through Newtown to Caersws, but after leaving the latter station you soon enter the Cambrian Mountains and the land either side of the tracks rises steeply. The Cambrian Mountains Railway Journey As the train chugs through unspoilt wilderness you soon realise this is serious mountain territory for the United Kingdom. Plynlimon, the highest peak in the Cambrian Mountains, reaches 752 metres (about 2000 feet). In winter the sun appears just above the mountains at midday, sending its rays down the sharp incline green forested hills like searchlights of warmth and light to the dark streams below. Isolated houses and farms dot the landscape, and red kites and buzzards glide on thermals above. It is scenery that has changed very little for centuries, and due to its extreme landscape and wet cold weather there is unlikely to be a large increase in the human population. There have been attempts to make the Cambrian Mountains a national park, as Snowdonia is to the north, and the Brecon Beacons to the south, but they were unsuccessful. The three mountain ranges are practically conjoined. The Dyfi Estuary Railway Journey After winding through the high peaks the scenery changes after passing through Machynlleth, but that does not mean the landscape is diminished, as the Dyfi estuary then appears on your right. The train travels alongside the Cardigan Bay inlet, and the Cambrian Mountains leading to north Wales and Snowdonia can be seen across the water.
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The Dyfi National Nature Reserve Railway Journey Dovey Junction is in the middle of the Dyfi National Nature Reserve, and you can take trains up the Cambrian Coast to Pwlleli from there. Continuing to Aberystwyth you travel through the Cors Fochno raised peat mire, with the Cambrian Mountains still visible in the rear. Cors Fochno is one of three components to the Dyfi National Nature Reserve, along with the Ynyslas sand dunes and Dyfi Estuary mudflats. By the time you reach the west coast at Aberystwyth you have had your fix of nature...but then there’s Cardigan Bay... Further Information The journey takes about two hours, with the train times below an example: 19:29 Leave Shrewsbury 19:51 Welshpool 20:07 Newtown 20:16 Caersws 20:49 Machynlleth 20:56 Dovey Junction 21:07 Borth 21:26 Arrive Aberystwyth Tickets can be bought at: http://www.nationalrail.co.uk/
The copyright of the article A Train Journey Through the Cambrian Mountains in Wales Travel is owned by Marc Latham. Permission to republish A Train Journey Through the Cambrian Mountains in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
Waterfalls and Mountains Abound in Cambrians
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The Pages
Poetry
Feeding Time Have you ever had your dreams shattered like cornflakes in the mouths of children from the first bite of disappointment. Crumbled then spat to the corners of your hopes where they languish for want of cleaning up your misconceptions. Somewhere inside yourself you know, as others have for millennia before, that to stop seeing to stop asking to stop the questions is a sure way to defeat the soul. You’ve let it go to taste the flesh.
So you will ask in ways that bring the universe to attention to notice what you want is not for yourself but for others in your place, alone needing to feed on the connection of us all. Š Myra King
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The Pages
Poetry
Many Questions Do you still burn with searing anger at the depth of my betrayal? Will the trusting heart I kicked so brutally ever trust again? Has that sunny disposition been bruised beyond repair? And do a few drops still remain in that once overflowing, reservoir of love?
Have I destroyed that place in your heart you said was forever mine? Can it survive and be re-filled with love, for me, or even for some other? If time is the healer it claims to be, will it act as my ally, my friend? Or are my dreams of reconciliation in vain, doomed to eternal damnation? Along with my soul? What is the price of forgiveness?
Š Trevor Belshaw
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Article
Enemy Within The Capitalists are Destroying Capitalism: so are they the new ‘enemy within’ I am a small businessman now, and proud to be one, as well as being thankful to the business people who have helped and advised me. But I still reserve the right to criticise unethical and greedy business when it exploits and punishes the poor. When I was a poor youth in the 1980s, Britain was being fought over by the right and left wing, and socialists like the miners union, who were fighting to save their industry, were dubbed the ‘enemy within’ by our glorious leader, Thatcher. The destruction of the unions was meant to be a great victory for the country, releasing us from the Marxist menace. Blair and Brown have continued the Thatcherite policies, and now the country is divided like never before, with the rich ever richer, and the poor ever poorer. Yet thirty years of glorious Thatcherism hasn’t improved Britain by the look of our slumping economy. And even though the economy wasn’t that good in the 1980s at least we had good public services. An old woman was in tears on the news this morning having pulled two of her teeth out because she couldn’t find a dentist she could afford. Many people won’t be able to afford their energy bills this year, and post offices are too far away for many old or disabled people after profit-related closures. At least the robber barons of a century ago used to provide services; today’s robber barons profit from cutting services. A few people at the top receive massive bonuses for cutting costs by providing a worse service. Even though they might lose their jobs now, they’ve already made their money, and will be laughing into their bonuses and redundancy payments. The unions are no longer strong, the workers are no longer united, and strikes hardly ever happen. The migrant workers miracle that is supposed to prop up our economy doesn’t seem to have worked. Eastern European countries seem to have profited more from Britain’s ‘boom’ period than our own poor. So who are the ‘enemy within’ today, and why isn’t there a leader trying to break their stranglehold as Thatcher apparently did to the unions in the 1980s? © Marc Latham
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The Pages Diary of the Would-Be-Protagonist Anna, Me and the Empty Page So much for a day of rest. Anna kept herself busier than I thought she could, flitting from computer to kitchen to notepad and pen - and back again. I didn’t think she had it in her any more. At least she stayed outside for some of the time, so I could soak up some sun. I’ve waited a long time for that. She’s not the only one in need of a bit of sunshine in her life. Actually, a life would be good. But never mind. She’s writing. It’s not my story she’s writing (but that’s no surprise, is it?), but at least another protagonist is having a look-in. The story is moving ahead quite nicely as far as I can see. Some funny quips in there, too. I like that. Can’t quite see where it’s going though. I wonder if Anna can? Still, I wish it were me… She finally disappeared inside when the gnats started hovering and biting. I had nothing to do with it - cross my heart, hope to die... Bad choice of words, I know. A non-existent entity can‘t actually die, can it? (I feel more like a ’he’ than an ’it’, by the way, but it wasn’t always like that.) But you get my drift. Anyway, I was feeling quite relaxed - and gnats don’t bother me. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? But something seems to be bothering Anna, and it‘s not those little insects irritating her. Perhaps it’s me again. She started up the computer, eager enough. Ready to go. But then - just an empty stare. She just sat there, her eyes fixed on the blank screen as though she was looking nothingness in the face (can nothingness have a face?). I swooped down and perched myself on her shoulder, willing her to take up where she left off. Where she left me off, way back when. Anna, me, and an empty page, ready for my story. What could be better? But no, she just sat there. I waited (nothing unusual there) and waited. Anna sighed. ‘What’s the matter now?’(That wasn’t me talking!) ‘Nothing.’ ‘But what are you doing?’(Please, please let her say she’s thinking about my story!) ‘Thinking.’(Oh, perhaps not then.) ‘Thinking? You don’t usually just sit there thinking, staring at nothing.’ ‘Can’t I just think?’ ‘But you’re not doing anything. You’re always doing something, even when you're supposedly thinking.’ ‘Shut up!’ O-oh. She shouldn’t speak to her husband like that, should she? It’s not very nice. He’s quiet now. So is Anna. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Get back to your thinking. It’s okay.’ ‘It’s not okay. I can’t think.’ ‘Doesn’t stop you talking, does it? I’m watching football.’ ‘You spoke first.’
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I wouldn’t bother if I was you, Anna (and I‘m not her, you know). You won’t get his attention again in a hurry. At least not till half time. Of course she‘s not listening to me. She’s staring at that blank page again. Perhaps if I lean forward and accidentally depress a couple of keys… Well, perhaps not - I’ll have to make her do it. Here we go. She’s lifting her hand - there! Easy wasn’t it? It’s a nice feeling, sitting here on her shoulder, watching her fingers fly (or meander anyway - she could do with a bit more speed) over the keyboard. I could get used to this. But what is she writing? What? Hey! That’s plagiarism! She’s using ideas from my manuscript. Ideas are not copyright? What about my rights? Hello! Anna! She can’t do that, can she? She’ll spoil my story. I need that bit! She won't be able to use that again, will she? Oh… I’m getting very close to losing my temper. Ouch! She’s pulling me to pieces! How could she? I hope she knows what she’s doing. Sitting on her shoulder wasn’t so comfortable after all, in the end. If I hadn’t been so busy poking my nose into her business, I wouldn’t have known what she was up to, would I? That might have been better, I suppose. What made her do it? I feel cannibalised. Perhaps I brought it on myself? I would retire somewhere, if I could, to lick my wounds - but there is nowhere to go, except back into her mind. I’m not sure I want to be there just now. Perhaps that’s all she wants, to keep me at bay. Well, we’ll see. Let her do her worst. I’ll find a way to get through this setback, too - somehow.
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The Pages
...and
Looking for collaborators for ongoing projects A copy of a blog entry on my website (www.freewebs.com/annareiers):
Time to re-energise... I don't mean me, personally (or perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad idea), but the site in general - and more particularly the collaborative ventures. What happened to them? We need more stories and poems for the Challenge, to make it into a book, to make some money for children with arthritis. Believe me, as an adult with Rheumatoid Arthritis, I'd give anything for children not to have to suffer the same. Then there's Recipes for a Recession. It didn't really take off, did it? The recession hadn't really started to bite then. I think most will agree that it's now leaving some nasty bite marks! My husband was laid off last week, with a tentative 'maybe next month', but we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime we'd better prepare - and we won't be the only ones to have to cut our cloth according to our means. So, back to make do and mend - and stretch those pounds, dollars or euros. Perhaps we'll all be healthier for a less 'opulent' diet. More homemade food, more bright ideas - and perhaps a few brilliant ones? What money saving tricks do you use - and what clever cheap recipes are lurking in your minds? Can we put together enough to make an actual book out of it? *** All contributions gratefully accepted!
Some other news: My first novel, ‘Roll Mops in the Bread Bin’ should have been published by now, through the YouWriteOn initiative, but it’s one of the ones still to be done, so no link or image of front cover as I had hoped. Never mind; perhaps I’ll have news for you in the next issue. Still, I have a short story in ’43 L-Plates’, published by Fygleaves, and a story and a poem in Gene Genii, the anthology written by Grail Writers. Both are available through Amazon, I believe. Marit (aka Anna Reiers)
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The Pages
...and more
The Letters - a novel Will love be enough to encourage Violet to stay?
Paperback available now for pre-order or from the shop on 2.3.09 Buy from Amazon UK Buy from Amazon US
Buy from
Snowbooks (Can't wait? Buy a beautiful hardback from Snowbooks or Amazon now) Violet Ackerman has drifted through a career, four children and a divorce without ever knowing who she is or what she wants. After moving to the coast, she starts receiving a series of mysterious letters sent from a mother and baby home in 1959, written by a pregnant twentyyear-old Elizabeth to her best friend. These letters intersperse Violet's turbulent relationships with her lover, her infuriating son and the eccentric fellow members of the Village Committee. Who is sending Violet these letters, and why? 'The Letters' invites us see what happens when we don't run away. Will love be enough to encourage Violet to stay? Published by Snowbooks * ÂŁ7.99 * ISBN 9781906727062
About The Letters Violet Ackerman has drifted through a career, four children and a divorce without ever knowing who she is or what she wants. After moving to the coast, she starts receiving a series of mysterious letters sent from a mother and baby home in 1959, written by a pregnant twenty-year-old Elizabeth to her best friend. These letters intersperse Violet's turbulent relationships with her lover, her infuriating son and the eccentric fellow members of the Village Committee. Who is sending Violet these letters, and why? What will happen to Elizabeth's baby? 'The Letters' invites us see what happens when we don't run away. Will love be enough to encourage Violet to stay?
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