The Pages Issue 10

The Pages Winter Issue

Issue 10

Winter 2011

‘Psst… have you read the latest Pages Magazine?’

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Cover image by June Gundlack (Looking forward to spring?)

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The Pages

Contents

CONTRIBUTORS…………………………………………………………p

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EDITORIAL:……………………………………….Marit……………….p 7 Special Press Release…………………50 Stories for Pakistan………………………p 11

of the Inebriate Cyclist…..Rosa Johnson…….p 12 .……...The Delivery Man…………….....Trevor Belshaw….p 16 ………One Careful Owner…..Maureen Vincent-Northam…p 20 ………Dreaming in China………………J.M.Artes………...p 23 ………Transient Tainted Whispers…….Marilyn Sylvester...p 24 ………H………………………………Rebecca Emin……...p 41

POETRY: ………….Ballad

COMPETITION:

…………………………Flash500……………………………………….p 48

COMPETITION RESULTS:

……………………………………………………………………p 15

ON LIFE: ………….Wheelie SHORT STORIES: .

Inconvenienced…………June Gundlack….p 19

……..The Last Chance …………Diane Rayburn…p 17 ..…….The Journey………….Rebecca Emin………p 40

ARTICLES: ………….’Innit’ ……...................................David Robinson…….p

9 ………….Keeping The Day Job………………..David Robinson.…..p 21 ………….Travel Article…………………………….June Gundlack…….p 25 ………….BMI Baby…………………………………Trevor Belshaw…….p 42

PRESS RELEASES: …….Ellen’s Tale…………………..Alberta Ross………………p 34

…….The Storyteller’s Tale……Alberta Ross……………..p 35 BOOK REVIEW:……..The BOOK SHELF:

MonSter and the Rainbow…………………..p 31

……………………………………………………………………………………..p 26

STOP PRESS: ….…………… …………………………………………………………..p 46 DIARY PAGES:………….DWBP……Anna Reiers…………………………………………..p 48 3

The Pages

Contributors

Marit Meredith (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales,UK, in 1972. Married, with six daughters and eight grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front – and whenever she can, she writes. 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. She has published a collaborative book of poems and prose, ‘Another Haircut’, in aid of charity through Lulu, as well as 24 Stories for Advent. She has also published Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories and has several projects on the go (time to buckle down and finish them one by one, perhaps). www.thepages.spruz.com www.shoestring-publishing.spruz.com See also: www.wherefactfandfictionfuse.blogspot.com http://www.writelink.co.uk/community/blogs/posts/mater Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian mother (see above!) 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 3 year 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. www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com

Maureen Vincent-Northam lives in Hereford and has written seriously ever since Father Christmas left her a Petite typewriter. She is the co-author of The Writer’s ABC Checklist and her work has appeared in newspapers, magazines and online. She writes regularly for markets aimed at writers, has tutored workshops, judged online writing contests and her story for 5-8 year-olds won The Writers’ Advice Centre for Children’s Books 2008 competition. She works from her home office and can often be found surrounded by empty chocolate wrappers. www.maureen-vincent-northam.co.uk

http://writerschecklist.blogspot.com

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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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 now lives in Bangladesh. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/ At 54 after bringing up two children, caring for her parents and running a successful business buying and selling antiques and collectables, Diane Rayburn had a couple of brushes with the grim reaper. Bored to tears with sitting around, she decided to begin writing and started by jotting down all the memories from her very happy childhood.

Encouraged by winning a competition for a story based on her sisters birth, she joined a writers’ circle. The next step was to try her hand at fiction although she is ashamed to admit she’s too lazy once the stories are written, to do anything with them. Now age 65, she is grateful for her still sharp, long term memory, and thanks to Best of British magazine, is having some success with stories about her childhood.

June Gundlack’s love of writing started when following a Start Writing Fiction course at The Open University. She has won prizes for non-fiction articles in magazines and national papers and is currently working on a novel aimed at young teens. She’s a regular Reader’s Letters contributor to The Daily Mail.

Marilyn Sylvester’s BA (Hons) first teaching assignment was based 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. She then became part of an editorial team to help produce a community magazine entitled: Guisborough Life and joined the online Writelink community for writers. Since then she has had poems published and been paid. One of those poems entitled: The Memorial Trees, is featured in Issue 4 of The Pages on page 8, as Marilyn won this magazine’s first poetry competition.

John Artes started writing poetry six years ago shortly before moving to Cyprus. To date he has written some 90 poems. He also enjoys song-writing as he is a musician and has been in involved in the music business for over 35 years. He is at present in the middle of writing his first novel.

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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 http://thewestwichwritersclub.blogspot.com/ Trevor’s new blog is at: www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog He ‘twitters’ at: www.twitter.com/tbelshaw

Rebecca Emin was born and raised in Oxfordshire, England where she now lives with her husband and three young children. She also has a teenage step daughter. Rebecca has a degree in Human Environmental Science from Kings College London, where one of her favourite tutors once commented “I do not believe your future lies in practical science”.

He was so right! Rebecca has recently achieved a life-long ambition to write a novel, and was surprised to find herself writing for 8-12 year olds. She has developed a love of writing flash fiction and an obsession with Twitter along the way. She plans to write a second children’s novel during NaNoWriMo 2010. Rebecca’s blog can be found at: www.rebeccaemin.com

David Robinson has been a writer since his teens, and semi-professional since the mid-eighties. He is extensively published both in his local newspaper and across the web and small press magazines. He turned out over 80 pieces for Kwickee, the mobile phone information service. He published his first two novels in 2002, and his third novel, The Haunting of Melmerby Manor was published in 2008 by Virtual Tales (USA). Usually writing either humour or supernatural fact/fiction, he is currently engaged on several projects including the sequel to The Haunting of Melmerby Manor. His new novel ‘Voices’ will soon be published. He lives with his wife and crazy West Highland White called Max, on the edge of the moors northeast of Manchester.

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The Pages

Editorial

It has been a busy and eventful time since the last issue of The Pages was published. Greg McQueen, of 100 Stories for Haiti fame, set up Big Bad Media (since closed, due to personal commitments) and almost as soon as he had it set up (I think I have the time-line right), and following the disastrous flooding in Pakistan, he put out a call for submissions for his new charity venture 50 Stories for Pakistan, which will be available for sale as The Pages ‘goes to press’, available fromBlurb: http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1678288 , at £4.95 + postage. I’m pleased to say that several members and writers of The Pages had their submissions accepted (but you’ll have to buy the book to find out who). Details on the Blurb website (see above).

As this issue is going to press, another charity anthology is being put together. With the news of the horrendous flooding in Queensland hitting our screen, Trevor Belshaw put out the challenge for another anthology: 100 Stories for Queensland. Jodi Cleghorn, a publisher from Brisbane, answered the call and a ‘management team’ formed. They are still working hard at getting it all together. A team of readers read and voted on stories, and the team of editors are presently editing the 100 stories that were accepted. I feel privileged to have taken part both as a reader an editor. 100 Stories for Queensland should be out next month (March), and I will post the details on The Pages website.

The standards were very high, so it was no easy task to choose the stories to go through to print. Well done to everyone.

Don Booker interviewed several of us on his writing blog The Writing Life and other Absurdities, on Author in the Zone. My interview – a first for me (and a bit scary) – followed on from Trevor Belshaw’s and David Robinson’s – and then came the interview with Maureen Vincent-Northam and more recently, Sarah James.

Writers Abroad (WA), a website and community for expat writers, is going from strength to strength. It’s a small writing community of writers having made their home away from their home country, but with English as the language they write in. Their/our latest venture, an anthology of short stories with aspects of/hinting at expat life, has been published. Submissions came from far and wide, but also include some of the members’ own stories. http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/waanthology/14412426?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1 Then we come to our own anthology, Shambelurkling and other Stories. We sent out the call for submissions just before the call for submissions to 50 Stories for Pakistan, so held back a little till the deadline for submissions for that had passed then swung back into action renewing the call. With the help of members, new and old, the word spread and the submissions literally poured in. It‘s great!

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Shambelurkling and Other Stories (and poems, too), an anthology of children’s stories, mainly for the 8-12 year olds (younger and older, too – in my opinion), was published through Lulu, and all royalties will go to National Autism Society Early Bird Program (UK). Marilyn Sylvester, one of our regular writers, wrote the dedication, as this is a program that has been of invaluable help to her grandson Jay, and her family. Jay has his input in the anthology, too. The first cheque for £160 was sent some time ago, and I had the thank you letter today (10/2-11).

Shambelurkling and Other Stories is available from Lulu, at £3.99 for a paperback copy, and £1.99 for a download copy/e-book. http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/shambelurkling-and-otherstories/13584180?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1 Last but not least, Meg Kingston has recently published The MonSter and the Rainbow, and we wish her lots of success with sales – and congratulations. 50 p per copy sold will be donated to MS charities. Money aside, if you have, or know of anyone who has, MS or any other chronic disability, this book is not only a lifesaver – it may well change your outlook completely. I would recommend it as a read for everyone, disabled or not (see also the review and the bookshelf).

Enjoy your read!

Marit

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The Pages

Article

David Robinson – on reading June Gundlack’s ‘Yoof Language’ in Issue 9 (extracted from his blog, with his permission):

In the last issue, I read June Gundlack's piece, Yoof Language, and I identified with it immediately. I have two teenage granddaughters and there are times when I wonder whether we live on the same planet.

Witness the time when Vicky felt she had "majorly failed her Spanish test." Failed I could understand. I'm a specialist in failing ... or am I a specialist in failings? I digress.

To me, fail is an absolute. You either pass or you don't. There's no degree of failure. So you can't majorly fail, even if the word majorly exists, which I doubt.

Her sister Hannah, one of Facebook's busier correspondents, writes in a kind of shorthand that would have kept Alan Turing and his chums at Bletchley Park busy for years, and one of her friends invited Hannah to "inbox me". An invitation like that is wide open to misinterpretation on several levels from disgusting to violent.

After complimenting another young chap, the son of a friend, on his musical abilities, he modestly described himself as epic. Epic?? I'd only just got used to awesome.

Referring back to June's Article in The Pages, I noticed her confusion in the coffee shop, and it reminded me of an incident from several years back.

I was on my way out of London, starving hungry and I double parked outside a fast food joint on Brompton Road. Rushing into the place I ordered a plain burger on a bun. I suffer from an old trucker's tummy and the burgers alone can drive me up the wall, never mind all the crap they put on them.

"I don't understand," said the kid behind the counter.

"You know what a burger is?"

"Yes." "You know what a bun is?"

"Yes." "Put the one inside the other and you have a plain burger on a bun."

He gave this a moment's thought. "What about the mayo, relish, garni?"

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My thoughts were on my double-parked van outside. "Relish I understand," I said, "Mayo is a county in Ireland and I never did like Alf Garnett. Just gimme the bleeding burger, will you?"

Frown creasing his brow, he asked, "is that to go?"

"No," I replied, "it's to eat."

It occurred to me that the kid had been programmed like a robot. He was fine when everything went according to plan, but confronted with someone who spoke English, even if it was in a Yorkshire accent, he was totally out of his depth.

I came out from the place, sans burger and drove away before the traffic wardens could pounce.

Why don't parents teach their kids how to speak proper? Innit?

Š David Robinson

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The Pages

Press Release

OUT NOW! ‘By 50 AWESOME WRITERS!’

Proceeds from sales donated to the Red Cross Pakistan Floods Appeal.

“Once again I have found myself in the position where I cannot ignore the need to do something. This time it is Pakistan … The United Nations estimates that twenty million people have lost their homes as a result of the flooding that started last July. Add to this the thousands who have already lost their lives, and the thousands who will lose their lives because of famine and disease … And well, it is once again time to do something!”

– Greg McQueen £4.95

Available from the Blurb bookstore: http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1678288 Look at the image on the cover of this book.

A man and a boy knee-deep in water. Father and son? Uncle and nephew? Teacher and pupil? Or perhaps just a kid, lost, tagging on to an adult in the hope that he will be taken somewhere safe, dry?

They are wading away from the light into the darkness and gloom. The unknown. Fear.

Hunger. Disease. But they are also wading towards you. They can’t ask for your help.

You must choose to give it.

A simple way of doing that is to buy this book. Proceeds go to helping the victims of the Pakistan floods.

Now please take one more look at the cover. And remember, they can't ask...

The introduction was written by award-winning author, Vanessa Gebbie.

This book was edited by a dedicated team of volunteers: Amy Burns, Nick Daws, Claudine Lazar, Jayne Howarth, Dan Powell, Jodi Cleghorn, Danny Gillan, Laurie Brassard, David Robinson, Maureen Vincent-Northam, Gillian Best, and P. J. Kaiser.

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The Pages

Poetry

Ballad of the Inebriate Cyclist On a river near Southampton where tides are all fast flowing and boat-yards through the centuries built boats for ocean-going.

Many masted sailing vessels, went trading and to war, now most of them are motorised and pleasure's what they're for.

Workers by the river-side, built men o' war for kings and merchant men with cargoes in their holds, and sails like wings.

With Hamble on the one side and Warsash on the ‘tother of English oak they built each boat all oakum-caulked to stay afloat in every sort of weather.

Shenanigans will ever be the richest form of scandal and Warsashers can top the rest, for few could hold a candle to the exploits on the towpath and in the local inns where residents are evidently not opposed to sins.

Many are susceptible to mild inebriation while others frequently succumb to sensual titillation.

This tale is of an adult male when he was seen to falter As drunken as a pickled skink He stumbled at the Hamble's brink and got into deep water.

Down by the tidal river, locals still call it the Hamble, is a rough and rugged tow path where many people amble.

Now some ride mountain bicycles and some prefer to jog while others come to chatter and to walk the family dog.

With the river on the one side and the salterns on the other some one rode the path between, and got into a pother He rode a tortuous path you see, ran off the straight and narrow, and then he sand and sea-weed reached and there upon the stony beach he ploughed a deep, straight furrow.

Who was it pick-ĂŠd up his bike? Who mounted on the saddle?

Who rode the rugged path again until he took a paddle?

The sea was going round and round, the beach would not lie still, who was it had to have a drink to stop him feeling ill?

With the river on the one side the salterns on the other who was it rode the path between, it could have been my brother.

He stood up and he fell down then back and forth he wandered.

A nod's as good as any wink he sure enough began to sink, then in the mud he foundered.

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The sun was warm upon his back the alcohol inside him had filled his head with happy thoughts which soon would woe betide him.

The water reached the level where his trousers met his vest and waist deep in cold water he remembered beer was best.

The river on the one side, the salterns on the other, the tow path it went up and down and with it went my brother.

He, undeterred re-mounted, unsteadily he wobbled. went headlong into lobsterpots his laces tied themselves in knots‌ he found that he was hobbled.

Who was it rode the antique bike, the Granny basket model?

Who tried to ride it side-saddle because he couldn't straddle?

He rode the rugged tow path he rode the treacherous track, the tide continued rushing in, no sign of slipping back.

The river getting higher covered up the salterns slurry along the rugged tow path he made no attempt to hurry he rode the tortuous tow path until the path went under.

In fifteen feet of water there he put his snorkel up for air, and we were left to wonder.

My brother was so plastered he kept walking under water but someone knew where he had gone — It was the Landlord's daughter.

She raised a loud alar(u)m and the in-shore lifeboat came he strode on under water, with just himself to blame.

When the lifeboat circled round him, to lend a helping hand they found he was too heavy with his boots full up with sand.

They hauled him from the river so that he wouldn't drown they tried to get him in the boat and prayed that it would stay afloat though it was upside-down.

They pulled him up the slip way, and revived him when he moaned, the bloke who gave him mouth to mouth was very quickly stoned.

They helped him scramble to his feet but suddenly he fell, slipped into torpid slumber and dreamed he was in Hell.

Afraid he'd meet with Satan, he almost didn't dare to take a shifty round the halls; - which of his friends were there?

At last he climbed a stairway and when the tide had turned, he dreamt he was at Heaven's gate, but oh, he had arrived there late, because his wings were burned.

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They opened wide the portals, they asked him to come in, they showed him where to hang his hat, and handed him a gin.

He said `I dreamed that Heaven would be a quiet spot, it's like a noisy public bar; like Hell, it's too darned hot!’

The Landlord offered him a shower, clean, dry apparel too, ‘I can't allow my clientele to get a look at you.’

'Come, help me drown my sorrows. Landlord, a bitter beer!

I thought that Heaven would be fun, Instead it's like the 'Rising Sun' at Warsash. Why'm I here?'

'They pulled you from the river, you'd nearly breathed your last, they thought you were a gonner.' My poor brother looked aghast.

'But I was on my bicycle, the Granny-basket kind, swimming in the Hamble just wasn't on my mind.'

'Young man,' opined the Landlord, 'You were extremely drunk, had it not been for the rescue boat you'd have certainly been sunk.

It was my only daughter sounded the alar(u)m You can be sure she saved your life, So if you're looking for a wife Let her take your ar(u)m.'

The Landlord's only daughter was not a pretty sight, she said she wouldn't marry, then again she thought she might.

She'd overshot her sell by date, though that is not a crime, but whiskers sprouting from her chin, said she was past her prime.

'I cannot be ungrateful, that woman saved my life,' my brother shut his eyes and asked her if she'd like to be his wife.

The Landlord's only daughter thought only of herself.

Said 'Marriage isn't quite my scene, I know just where that moron's been and I prefer the shelf.'

My brother was insulted, he didn't like rebuff so he thought he'd show the lady he was made of robust stuff. since the Landlord's only daughter didn't want to be his bride he planned to leave the country next day upon the tide.

The Landlord's only daughter had missed her only chance and my brother's with the barmaid in a gite in Southern France. © Rosa Johnson 14

The Pages

Annual Competition Competition Results:

THE WINNERS of the 2010

Annual Short Story and Poetry Competition:

Short Story: 1st: Dragon Bridge by Meg Kingston 2nd - joint: The Damned by Gill Brown and The Crunch by Louise Charles (Jo Lamb)

Poetry: 1st: What is it? by Pauline Porteus 2nd: Mandolin Memories by Paola Fornari Congratulations to you all! £25 goes to both Pauline, the first prize winner, as well as a copy of the chap book when published.

With the consent of the authors, nine stories and five poems will go into a small anthology/chap book, to be published through Lulu quite soon, and we’re looking for a children’s charity in Rio – also affected by bad floods – in order to donate any (all) proceeds.

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The Pages

Poetry

The Delivery Man Here's to the delivery drivers, the white knights out on the street, the men who deliver your parcels, are honest, polite and discreet.

They follow a noble tradition, like coach drivers in the wild west, but you never saw cowboys delivering things in dirty, ripped shorts and a vest.

They don't think the road rules should apply to them.

They ignore warning signs up ahead, and if they can't park on the twin yellow lines, they'll block off the pavement instead These heroes are out in all weathers and start their deliveries at dawn.

They love to leave your gates open and trample all over your lawn.

They always turn up when you're shopping, Or when you haven't got a stitch on.

You never have time to get to the door, one ring of the bell and they're gone.

But never you fear, if you're out when they call, your package will always get through left safe in the hands of the neighbour you hate, with a note saying, ‘sorry, missed you.’

If the nosy neighbour won't take it, you'll get a nice card through your door, saying, ‘we couldn't deliver your parcel,’ our depot is open till four.

The depot in question is two shires away, Five hours and seven detours, when you finally get hold of the parcel, you find out it's not even yours.

So three cheers for the white van driver, the man who delivers your wine and stands staring down at your cleavage, while he's trying to get you to sign. © Trevor Belshaw 16

The Pages

Short Story

The Last Chance

No one realised quite what would happen or just how popular it would become when the first artificial sperm guaranteeing the sex of the baby, passed its trials with flying colours.

After a couple of generations with an unnaturally high male birth rate, there was a sudden world-wide swing to female that was thought to be a backlash against wars, ecological change, world starvation and the lethargy and greed of world leaders - mainly men - to do anything about it.

For a century or so outbreaks of male birth still occurred. That in turn fostered an evil trade in Toy Boys. Fought over by the world’s richest women, the scandal of raiding parties shooting the mothers and selling the young males via undercover markets shocked the world. It took many years of protest before the World Council, finally shamed by the unnatural conditions the young men were kept in, clamped down on the illegal trade.

Then male births fell to zero.

‘I’m at my wits end.We’ve spent a fortune on advertising. I really thought that starwide series on our rescue work would bring them flocking in, but it’s been a total flop,’ Starshine grumbled as she ran a critical eye over the short paragraph she’d just written to be included in next year’s brochure.

‘I’m not surprised. They’re not the best example of the species,’ the head keeper Makejoy said. ‘Orangutans have always been a favourite, and the gibbons regularly collect a crowd, but quite honestly, who wants to look at them?’

The owner of The Last Chance endangered species zoo, pushed away her latest attempt to attract more custom, while mournful cries of, ‘Inglun, inglun, kilaref, kilaref,’ wafted in through the open window.

‘But they’re the last of the species; we’re the only facility in the world that has them,’ Starshine protested.

Makejoy shrugged. ‘What attracts the public is cuddly babies, especially if they’re covered with fur. These days, just feeling sorry for something doesn’t enter into the equation.’ She sighed in frustration. It was just her bad luck she’d been chosen to be their keeper. Her pleas that woolly monkeys were her specialty had fallen on stony ground.

As shouts from the enclosure became more frantic she glanced out of the window. ‘Do you want me for anything else? They get restless if they’re not fed on time.’

Makejoy strode from the office and made her way to a large custom built enclosure.

She felt a moment’s compassion thinking about how the poor creatures had spent their whole lives shut in small windowless rooms in a fertility lab.

Passionate about her charges, Starshine had undertaken a lot of research to make sure they were comfortable with hand knitted blankets on their bunks, and a communal room with a slot machine and a pool table. A large all weather screen in their enclosure played non-stop twenty first century football games. A row of plastic stadium seats and white 17

goalposts had been added to the two acre space last year, and today half a dozen footballs littered the ground along with plastic beer glasses and toilet rolls. Although the sub species were in no condition to actively play, it added a nice touch of reality to their surroundings.

Sorry for them or not, this was the part Makejoy hated most. As she strode into view, the men nudged each other, whistled and began to gang up near a wooden bench where they sat to eat their food. She checked her watch, tossed twenty cans of lager over the fence and while the men were squabbling over the cans grabbed a steaming bucket of curry and rice. Saying, ‘Watch my back’ to her assistant, Makejoy pulled a cattle prod from the belt of her skirt and edged carefully through the gate.

‘Nice one, Starshine,’ she muttered as she watched them wolfing it down from the safety of a viewing platform. ‘Curry certainly is one of their favourite foods, but guess who has to clean their pens out tomorrow.’

© Diane Rayburn

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The Pages

Article

Wheelie Inconvenienced Motor bikes, cars, lorries and trains seem tame to other forms of wheels…

Let’s start with the pavement. A place to walk perhaps? Nah! I accept that wheelchairs and prams have the right of way in most cases, but I seem to attract the amusement of drivers of motability scooters where some of the ‘drivers’ feel they have a right to ram anyone in their way. Hey! I feel pain.

But these are not the only wheels vying for their place on the pavements, there are skateboards, and bikes – the bikes being ridden by children, and their parents and all their relatives and friends – so generations enjoy the whole width of the walk-way to rideaway leaving pedestrians to dive out of the way of the wheels.

Then there are the children on shoes with ‘heel wheels’; others on scooters, and some on the new even wider fliker scooters; and then… there are the most dangerous wheels of them all…wheelie bags being pulled and pushed by people who seem to think they are dragging a piece of string, and that whipping it in front of unsuspecting people or suddenly stopping is not going to trip others up with no notice (trip-up, is a strange saying as most people trip-down, oh well).

Finally, pedestrian manages to walk in the few inches of pavement left to do so, to a bus stop. The anticipated reward is a pleasant journey away from the wheelie jungle of the pavements. Argh! the bus is full of prams, fold-down bikes, people with wheelie bags and trolleys, and the wheel challenged pedestrian is again left to seek solace in a tiny piece of terra non-firma until dispensed back into the throng of wheels on the pavement – I nearly forgot the static wheels en route - the growing army of wheelie bins in every colour and size, and the discarded supermarket trolleys, who like the pedestrian, find harmony on the pavement spatially challenging!

© June Gundlack ☺ June is building quite a name for herself, with her letters to ‘Peterborough’ in The Daily Mail, becoming quite a regular feature. They are even illustrated by their own cartoonist.

Time they gave her her own column, I think!

Ed.

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The Pages

Poetry

One Careful Owner Our local car dealer has a wonderful range and you know how you get when you fancy a change.

So I took out an ad in the ‘2 weeks 4 a fiver!’ and awaited a call from a discerning driver.

There were five – the first from an interested bloke, I assumed he was foreign by the language he spoke.

“RCL, FSH and ABS? Do tell.”

I said, ‘Yes, non-smoker, GSOH as well’.

A lady, impressed by the picture I’d drawn her (‘It’s small, it has doors, and a wheel in each corner’) on closer inspection had thought it less nice, lacking leopard-skin covers and pink fluffy dice.

One chap insisted, “I need power steering and an effective alarm – I’m a bit hard of hearing.

Because of lumbago I need seats that adjust and I’m allergic to metal and rubber and rust.”

“I can black out them windows and re-spray them doors, add spoilers, and alloys, lights under the floors.”

‘So the number plate stays when you’ve rearranged?’

He said, “Yeah, but I fink like that can be changed.”

“Tut... it’s in need of a buff-up under the hood, Mother’s found dust there, it’s not looking good.

She says wax, bleach and polish is all it requires.

Oh and when did you last put fresh air in the tyres?”

I think, on reflection, I’ll hang on to my motor and tell ‘Honest Dave’ where he can park his Toyota.

I’ve lost heart with these buyers, seems all they intend is to drive one careful owner right round the bend.

© Maureen Vincent-Northam 20

The Pages

Article

Keeping the Day Job Who’d be without the day job? Most writers apparently. Give them a large advance and they’d pack it in tomorrow, but is it the right move?

For my sins, I hold down a full time job and I write too, but I don’t find it a juggling act because work has several major advantages for the freelance.

Firstly, it maintains contact with the rest of the human race, or at least, that part of it working alongside me.

Made up of 3000 people, my workplace is a cross-section of ready made characters who will drop nicely into a novel or short story: glamour boys and girls, gluttons, anorexics, idlers, workaholics, even alcoholics, divorcees, those on the second or third spouse, the house-proud and the not-so-house-proud, the clean, the filthy, the long, the short and the tall.

And it doesn’t stop at fiction. Everyone has a story to tell, from the money-mad, former union official who used to run his own rig, and is still paying off the creditors, to the driver whose Norwegian wife is so outspoken that she’s an embarrassment to him.

There’s a Health & Safety officer whose task it is to drive away all the pigeons. To do so, he bought an air pistol, but his eyesight is worse than mine and he couldn’t hit the side of the building from 15 feet, never mind the pigeons. He’s a bigger liability than asset to health & safety. There’s an order clerk who is so tight with the company’s money you’d think she was personally paying for my safety boots, and a tyre fitter who spends more time working on private cars – including mine – than he does working on the fleet of trucks and trailers.

Then there are the regular visitors to the place, like the soap man who will always find a can of de-greaser for my window frames in exchange for a cup of tea. And how about the tanker driver who complained that his exit lane was blocked and in the event of the building catching fire, he would have to reverse out. (In case you’re wondering what’s odd about that, ask yourself how close you would stand to 7,000 gallons of inflammable motor fuel while the building was burning down.)

These are “ordinary” people with everyday problems, and they employ a lot of basic humour to help them get by. Any number of the one-liners I use in my blogs and novels, either come from or have been tried upon the crew before they hit the written page. For example; what do you call a trucker with a brain cell? Gifted. What do you call a trucker with 2 brain cells? A genius. What do you call a trucker with 3 brain cells? A liar.

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It’s not just the people, there’s the building and the locale too. We’re situated in a former cotton mill in a small town on the outskirts of North East Manchester, UK.

The town has a rich history in textiles and we’re located in a building protected by English Heritage, that dates back to Victorian times. No need for any extensive research when writing articles about it. Everything is there in the main reception rooms. The company too, has a long pedigree. Founded on the terraces of a football ground back in the 20s, owned by a philanthropist family until it was bought out by a pair of billionaire entrepreneurs 5 years ago, whole volumes could be written about it.

We keep the town alive. A lot of the money earned at the mill finds its way into hands of local shopkeepers, and if the residents do complain about the noise and inconvenience of all those trucks trundling up and down Market Street, they also accept that without us, they would be living in a ghost town.

The site is not just about parking and servicing 600 trailers and 80 tractor units. We have a cornucopia of wildlife on the banks of the river that runs through our premises. We watch wagtails feeding on insects trapped in the grease on the floor of the trailer wash, there is a nest of Kestrels on the tower of the old mill, and we have a family of foxes living with us. Probably the best fed town foxes in the UK. Most of us leave food out for them.

We have our share of VIP visitors too. Gordon Brown called in during the 2005 UK election campaign. Back then he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, but he never nipped into my office for a cup of tea and a chat about my income tax.

Working for a living can be a bind, and like other writers, I dream about the £1,000,000 advance, but my job is a sort of safety valve. It keeps me sane, keeps me in touch with humanity in a way that TV cannot do, and it provides me with inspiration and characters for most of my writing.

I might give it up one day, but for now, I’ll be keeping the day job.*

© David Robinson

* David has since had to retire from ‘the day job’ on health grounds, but we decided to keep the article as it was submitted.

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The Pages

Poetry

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The Pages

Poetry

Transient Tainted Whispers Slicing wind-fringed rain snuffs out heat-baked landscaped memories of swizh swizh sounding whispers frisking through ripened corn...

stealing in with a cool-cast dawn is a grey-gauze mist that drips solaced vapours on fizzling dreams of longer lasting days.

Abandoned hedgerows display elastic-anchored spider webbed veils adorned with chandeliered drops of soft shivering pearly glitz...

deepening shadows of dusk eclipse with a hushed overspill of sizzling gold smudged onto a transient sky tinged with iridescent feathered wisps...

Š Marilyn Sylvester (2006)

Transient Tainted Whispers was my first published poem to receive payment and was published on Writelink. The theme was based on: After the Harvest, and the line count had to be a minimum of 12 lines.

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The Pages

Travel Article

Sun, Sea, Sand and Baked Vegetables!

The plane had arrived on time, the doors opened and the glorious Portuguese sun shone in. I was ready for a week of sun and relaxation and the opportunity to perhaps string a few words together on paper in my quest for an amusing travel story. It doesn’t take long – people watching can be very entertaining.

It would appear that the sunshine and beach brings out the child in most of us, although some are more demonstrative than others.

Take the sun-loungers on the beach – here you will find people topping up their tan. The warmth of the sun is beneficial to most and with so little back home, the opportunity to get an almost all-over tan is not one to be missed. It seems that once the sun hit the bathers’ heads, all sense of body presence melts away.

On the second day I needed to walk past some sun-loungers, where men were enjoying the warmth – their legs (the men’s, not the loungers) at east and west – giving a very southerly show of what I will call for this article, vegetables. Do they not feel the sun on these nether regions – are they not aware of the risk of sunburn? Tender places need tender care, not regulo 8 for many hours.

Then there were the keep-fit holiday people – the ones preferring not to lie in the sun, but jog along the waters edge. The warm sun – 33 degrees, fresh salt air, and occasional rippling of the cooling Atlantic water ran between their tootsies. The preferred ‘uniform’ for these joggers was topless – presumably to get a better tan. It surprised me how many of these runners were ‘gals’ of a non teenage, twenty or even thirty something range, but far older. Impressive, yes – but remember we’re talking ‘topless’ so there were swinging breasts flailing from left to right like bus windscreen wipers, ooh – not a pretty sight.

They turned a few heads and possibly other body parts for some.

Okay, so what did I wear – yes, I too looked a tad daft, but the rubber wetsuit, honestly officer, it was necessary. I wasn’t aiming for a Diana Rigg type look (if only, dreams me) – I went swimming with the dolphins and the wetsuit was essential apparel for this. Oh, yes, and the white floppy hat – well the sun was hot – remember the baked vegetables mentioned further up and the human windscreen wipers too – I had to protect my tender highlights.

I can’t wait to go on holiday again, and play on the sand, play in the water and possibly swim with the dolphins – after all, we’re only young once – and for me, I’m making it last a lifetime! © June Gundlack 25

The Pages

The Book Shelf

Shambelurkling and Other Stories Published by The Pages (Shoestring Publishing), Through Lulu, in aid of National Autism Society.

Available from www.lulu.com (key in title): £3.99 papaerback £1.99 download/e-book.

You can also find us on Facebook.

50 Stories for Pakistan by 50 writers Produced by Big Bad Media Available from the Blurb bookstore: http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1678288 £4.95

100 Stories for Haiti is a collection of short stories which will be sold to raise money for relief efforts in disaster-stricken Haiti. All proceeds go to the Red Cross.

100 Stories for Haiti was published on March, 4th, 2010, as an ebook on Smashwords.com, and as a paperback available online and in shops.

Watch the project's website for more details: www.100storiesforhaiti.org and see this issue’s Pick of the Web.

Into the Yell by Sarah James, Circaidy Gregory Press, 96 pages: £7.99 ISBN-10: 1906451249 ISBN-13: 978-1906451240 Available from: http://www.sarah-james.co.uk Circaidy Gregory Press at: http://www.circaidygregory.co.uk It is also

on sale in local Waterstones and Three Counties Bookshop and Ledbury Books and Maps, both in Ledbury High Street.

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City Paddock & Other Stories

by Myra King Available from the award-winning Adelaide independent publisher Ginninderra Press at: http://www.ginninderrapress.com.au/

Rajput by Eva Ulian Available from the Book Depository: http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/

Ellen’s Tale by Alberta Ross Pub: Eilios Books ISBN 978184426726-2 Paperback 233 pages £7.99 Ellen’s Tale is available from Alberta Ross’ website http://albertaross.co.uk where extracts are available for reading and details of forthcoming publications can also be found.

The Storyteller’s Tale by Alberta Ross Pub: Eilios Books ISBN978184426863-4 Paperback 358 pages £8.99 Available from Alberta Ross’ website http://albertaross.co.uk where extracts are available for reading and details of forthcoming publications can also be found.

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DW’s Guide To Holidays is available as an e-book (most formats catered for) from Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/11854 price $5.99

The Haunting of Melmerby Manor

by David Robinson Available from: http://www.virtualtales.com/vmchk/Mystery/Crime/Haunting-ofMelmerby-Manor http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.amazon.com

Twaddle by DW Bits and pieces designed to be read in bits and pieces. You need a breather to settle your laughter.

Available as a paperback or can be downloaded as an e-book from lulu.com on the following url. http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=707173

Birthrights by Su Laws Baccino (Susan Baccino) Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk/ http://www.waterstones.com http://www.amazon.com/ http://www.barnesandnoble.com/

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Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories

by Marit Meredith Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.amazon.com http://www.lulu.com/uk £7.99

The Letters by Fiona Robins Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.snowbooks.com/index.html

The Blue Handbag by Fiona Robyn Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk

Thaw by Fiona Robyn £7.99 Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.snowbooks.com/index.html

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"The Rhinoceros and His Thoughts: short stories & poetry - the best of the Whittaker Prize 2009" edited by Donna Gagnon Pugh (192pp) Available from

Paperback ÂŁ13.48

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-rhinoceros rhinoceros-andhis-thoughts/8043864 thoughts/8043864

The MonSter and the Rainbow

By Meg Kingston.

Available from: http://www.MonSter-Rainbow.co.uk A memoir of a disability.

Mission: To promote knowledge about disabilities, especially MS, in a world that isn't as equal as it thinks.

The MonSter and the Rainbow, paperback RRP ÂŁ8.99

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The Pages

Review

The MonSter and the Rainbow: Memoir of a Disability by Meg Kingston.

ISBN: 978-0-9552602-3-0 Published by Jay Walker Writing on 20/10/2010 Available to order from: http://www.monster-rainbow.co.uk/ Paperback, 304 pages, £8.99 (50p will be donated to MS charities for every book sold)

If ever there was a book waiting to be written, it is this one.

Whether you have your own MonSter lurking – be it the MS kind or any other chronic illness – Meg Kingston has written the book that surpasses the usual advisory leaflets. She tackles the MonSter head on, and through her unique way of painting her rainbow, helps the reader tackle theirs, too. It is also an invaluable guide for family members, friends and carers – a guide to better understanding. Above all, I think, this is the book that should be available for every person newly diagnosed with MS, a guide to living with the disability, while remembering that you are a person with a disability; the disability isn’t who you are. As Meg says she thinks ‘of it as a separate, self-willed entity, I detach it from myself and remember that I do have an existence apart from my disability.’

But why The MonSter? As Meg says in her introduction: ‘When I came across the use of the word MonSter as slang for MS, I felt that someone had found the perfect name for the condition. Capitalising the M and the S works well and believe me – MS is a monster.’

Quote from the back cover: ‘…Meg's book will help you understand your MonSter, learn to live with it - rage against it when you need to - and re-adjust as changes occur. This isn't a text book, it's a life being lived, experiences shared and lessons learned and passed on to all those facing a life with their own MonSter. The MonSter and the Rainbow is a godsend - and Meg the wonder-woman of MS. She says it as it is, with refreshing honesty.

Sample chapter on the next page: 31

The Pages

Review

Sample chapter from The MonSter and the Rainbow: Memoir of a Disability

by Meg Kingston

Dear Winner ...

Congratulations, YOU are the lucky winner of a multiple sclerosis prize! YOUR body passed the qualifying rounds and won the final selection!! There is no need to sign for delivery.

You may be wondering how YOU were chosen to win this life-changing prize. In accordance with all legal systems and local by-laws, the final draw is entirely random; although we consider several criteria in the early stages of the selection process. These include gender (we pick 50% more women than men), age, ethnicity, childhood infections, your home region and any close relatives who may have been lucky enough to win previously. Prizes are usually presented between the ages of 25 and 45, although in exceptional cases it may arrive earlier or later.

As the happy recipient of this award, we understand you’re impatient to learn more.

You’ll notice little change in your body’s appearance and behaviour at first; but will soon see our gift’s growing influence. What begins as a little numbness today may become chronic pain, localised loss of sensation or vicious pins and needles tomorrow. Who knows? In twenty years’ time, you may be completely unable to walk. Or you may appear perfectly well. One of the great joys of playing host to multiple sclerosis is never knowing what it will surprise you with next!

Initially, YOUR award will be classed as the relapsing-remitting type. With this diagnosis, you will receive new delights on an irregular basis. YOUR multiple sclerosis will amaze you with its ability to invent original symptoms on its own unpredictable timescale. Any day now, you could be unable to speak clearly or walk in a straight line.

Hours of amusement as you try to convince police officers you’re not drunk and disorderly!

You’ve probably noticed some of the basic functions of your prize already. That wobbling of your eyes is called “Nystagmus”. We gave it a really obscure name so that no-one will understand what you’re complaining about. It’s sometimes called “Optic Neuritis” – which is almost as good. That weird way your foot flops about when you’re trying to walk? We call that “Drop Foot”. A nice, easy term to remember, but it means nothing to anyone else, so you still won’t be troubled by any embarrassing sympathy.

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Although we don’t provide a manual with your prize, you will soon learn the correct terminology for its advanced features. The painful band around your chest that stops you breathing is known as the “MS Hug”. They’re an ironic bunch in our marketing department. And that sudden feeling of being too tired to even sit up? That’s called “MS Fatigue”. If you mention it to anyone, they’ll assume you’re just feeling a bit tired and making a big fuss about nothing.

There are many benefits of ownership you won’t notice at first. Your employer will want to discuss your sudden eligibility for early retirement. Non-prize-winning friends will respond to your changing situation – not returning phone calls, forgetting to invite you on a night out, crossing the street when they see you. Don’t worry; they’re only jealous.

You’ll make new friends when you start to meet other prize-winners. After all, who understands you better than another lucky recipient?

For obvious commercial reasons, we cannot disclose the long-term behaviour of your award. We do, however, refer you to the countless lies, scare stories, conspiracy theories and quack remedies currently circulating on the internet. One of these may even be a cure, or maybe it’s the placebo effect. We aren’t saying! Many happy hours can be wasted in a quest to understand the MonSter. Remember, this award has been uniquely designed for YOU and is non-transferable.

Welcome to the fastest-growing community of neurological prize-winners in the world.

Welcome to a future with your new, closest companion: a MonSter that will remain with you for the rest of your life.

Yours insincerely, The Multiple Sclerosis MonSter

© Meg Kingston

33

The Pages

Press Release Ellen’s Tale by Alberta Ross Alberta Ross successfully self–published ‘Ellen’s Tale’ in 2009 under her own imprint of Eilios Books. Ellen’s Tale: the first part of the Sefuty Chronicles, was driven by Alberta’s concerns on climate change, dwindling resources such as water and the growing population.

The Sefuty Chronicles are set in a world post climate change, when catastrophic global wars over resources have decimated the world’s population. The survivors are divided into those who live within the safety of the City walls, and those who exist behind the false security of landmines, intended to be removed after the wars but still remaining 50 years later.

It is 2162 and two young researchers, Ris and Maia, are studying the effects that the meeting between Ellen, sheltered City girl, and Bix, a genetically changed soldier, and their love for each other, had on history. The research is mainly concerned with 50 year old interviews recorded at the time. A second love story emerges through the incomplete correspondence between Ris and Maia.

Although the back history of the book is horrific, Ellen’s Tale is itself a hopeful and kindly book of two young people who, against all odds, fall in love and make a life for themselves.

Ellen’s Tale is available from Alberta Ross’s website http://albertaross.co.uk where extracts are available for reading and details of forthcoming publications can be found.

Endorsement: When I first saw it was a romance, there was a reluctance to start ... anyway I started reading and was caught. Thank you for a refreshing, original read.

Terry

34

The Pages

Press Release The Story Teller’s Tale by Alberta Ross

The Storyteller’s Tale, the second of the Sefuty Chronicles by Alberta Ross, was launched this summer and continues the story begun in Ellen’s Tale. The companions of the first chronicle are now out in the post industrial world, attempting to open up the beleaguered settlements, clearing the lethal legacy of land mines and establish trade routes. They have a new addition to the party – Keira – the storyteller of the title. The black sheep of Blaisemilll, some say she is mad, all agree she is bad. Against advice she is taken on to help the companions to learn the skills necessary. Many think she will prove to be too great a liability.

The two archivists from Ellen’s Tale are on a field trip gaining extra knowledge of Ellen and Bix’s progress through the settlements. We learn more from their correspondence back to a friend in the City.

The Storyteller’s Tale is available from Alberta Ross’ website http://albertaross.co.uk where extracts are available for reading and details of forthcoming publications can also be found.

Endorsement: Having enjoyed Ellen’s Tale, I looked forward in anticipation of another good read in the second Sefuty Chronicle, The Storyteller’s Tale, and was not disappointed. After getting to know the character of Ellen in the first book, here is another well-drawn but completely contrasting character. I look forward to meeting in depth some of the other inhabitants of this part-alien, part-familiar world of the not too distant future.

Sandra

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The Pages

Garden at Little Oak 7

(Note: written with view to a late summer release of this issue‌ Ed.) This country is not as a rule one of weather extremes yet in 2010 it has been just that, here in the South. Early in the year we had a deep freeze, never to be forgotten and it seemed that no sooner was that behind us than it began to rain and we thought it would never stop; then along came the sweltering sun. In this neck of the woods it was scorching hot and unusually dry for all but three months. Our rainfall has been at a record low and though we had a thunderstorm on Sunday 8th August the rain recorded was less than half an inch. The lawns were white/silvery colour (see drought pictures) but that shower of rain has given them a thin sprinkling of green grass over the white, reminiscent of a balding head with green hair‌. know what I mean?

We have managed to keep most of the pots and vegetables watered. Vegetable crops have been the best ever and we had sufficient blueberries on our tiny bush to make one pie. We have flowers on the golji bush. Shall we manage berries on that too? The flowers are charming, small, violet stars edged with white.

We were pleased to have sown all the vegetable seeds in cell trays and pots. The sodden soil which resulted from the snow and rain was no place for self-respecting seeds to germinate but they thrived when it was dry enough to plant them out. It went on getting dryer and dryer and the hoses had to come out. We also used Soluply (not sure of the spelling there). It consists of long tubes of soft black plastic perforated along their length. The tube is tied to end it at any point required. On rows of vegetables it has been invaluable this year. It is used a lot in commercial horticulture.

In our garden‌

Thalictrumaqualegiafolia

Deutsia

Cezarinkium

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I suspect birds and small animals are suffering from mites and flees in the heat. Birds are queuing regularly at their bathing pool and are even braving corners of the fish pond. I watched a young squirrel this morning running around up and down the birch tree as though he was demented. I was expecting him to roll. Once I actually saw one turn over backwards off the tree trunk and roll on his back in the grass… No, it’s true, straight up!

The birds have been reproducing at an alarming rate this summer. One pair of robins had three broods one after the other. They seemed to go on feeding youngsters for weeks on end.

They are not the only species that have been multiplying rapidly. There are literally thousands of young birds around. Only yesterday I opened a bedroom window a smidgen too wide and a baby blue tit flew in. It had only just learned to fly and I was able to pick it up easily and take it down to the hedge but it didn’t leave my hand until I gave it a little help.

Such dry weather has meant that pests have been at a minimum and butterflies too. Since we had a little rain the butterflies have been abundant . We’ve seen more common blues, peacocks, gate keepers and red admirals than usual. Now there are just hundreds of large and small whites… the cabbage fiends and their caterpillars have put an end to the nasturtiums, with the help of black fly.

More from the garden…

Rose Bidolph Grange

Under the Pergola

Geranium

We had a wonderful crop of cherries this year. We love cherry jam-cum. I think I’ve said before I nearly always make jam-cum with stony fruit or fruit with large seeds. The cherry jam was ready to be pushed through the sieve when something gave me an enormous jolt in my back and jam making for that day was over… for me anyway. My husband potted and labelled it ‘Cherry jam with lots of stones’. It is full of them but it tastes so good we go through the painstaking task of sucking the jam off the stones and lining them up round our plates. I also made jam-cum with small blue plums from the hedge, delicious, no stones in that.

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Lettuce, carrots, broad - French and runner beans, spinach and cauliflowers have all been a great success. The Grenadier apple tree has produced one large and one small apple.

The Bramley has a heavy crop as usual. We’ve had the best crop of broad beans ever. As soon as we spotted the colourful jays on the fence eyeing up the quality of the beans we netted them (the beans) and we didn’t have to share them.

Shrubs as a whole have withstood the drought well. Only small conifers have suffered.

The strawberry trees looked pretty shot up, so my husband lopped a lot of branches off them and now they are sprouting again. One of these trees was supporting a Clematis Montana Alba and it came down with the branches but it is shooting well from the bottom.

Giant Orange Poppy

We have hardly been able to sit in the garden at all this summer though there is plenty of shade. It has been too damned hot! (That sounds like a quotation from something.) We have had meals in the kitchen with the patio door and windows all open and blinds closed against the sun. The insulation against the cold we had put in a couple of years ago has paid off again, keeping us cool indoors during the heat wave.

We lost one or two branches from the ash trees in a rainless gale. Ash trees tend to lose branches when they get old, especially when adverse conditions prevail.

I was putting washing on the line the other day and there was a terrific clamour in the tops of the trees. Birds were flying around and playing among the branches but I wasn’t close enough to identify them. A few days later I saw them in closer ash trees and had time to get the binoculars on them. I was able to see they had pale breasts flecked with brown. I thought they were Mistle thrushes but was unsure. I checked with the RSPB and they confirmed my suspicions. The large thrushes do behave like this when their nesting season is over, they said. They build earlier in the year than most birds.

38

Pipistrells are still roosting in the roof but there are not as many as there were. One year, when it was very hot during the Wimbledon Championships, they became over-heated and the mums tipped a great many of the tiny batlings out of the roost. They fell to the ground from three floors up and most died in the heat if they survived the fall. A few tiny things that survived all the adversity tried to climb back up to the roost clinging on with heir toes and fingers to the rough walls. They sheltered in the shade of windowsills but eventually died. One or two came indoors but the Bat Lady (from the Bat Conservation Society) told us if we tried to raise one we’d be sorry because they never learn to feed themselves without their mothers. This means it is over to you and they hang around waiting to be fed.

We have seen nothing of the hedgehogs all through the summer but after the rain when the grass was just showing green I saw a hedgehog pooh on the lawn. I was delighted.

Funny what gives some people their kicks isn’t it?

© Rosa Johnson

39

The Pages

Short Story

The Journey I sit, pretending to look out of the window, as the bus drifts forward. I feel beads of perspiration on the back of my neck. I can’t understand why no-one else on the bus has noticed the sound of my heart, as it is beating so loud. Thud, thud, thud, is all I can hear.

I smooth my skirt and feel my pulse quicken as the driver applies the brake. Today could be the day. I can barely breathe as the doors hiss open and a group of noisy people climb aboard.

Chatting, knocking people with bags and apologising, then finding seats.

None of this registers on my radar as I am only focussing on you. I glance up as you approach.

Your eyes burn me as you look my way and then you walk past. I exhale as the disappointment seeps through me, but I am certain that this is only because your friend wants to talk to you, and the back of the bus is empty. Perhaps you will sit next to me on the way home. A bittersweet smile crosses my lips as the warmth of your gaze stays with me for a while.

I think of my friend, Jenny. She is constantly talking about this boy that she likes at her swimming class. She is pathetic. She thinks that he will fall in love with her, and that they will live happily ever after, or something like that. It’s all a big dream, and maybe she will realise this one day, as I get so bored of hearing about him.

It’s not like that for us, is it Jack? We were born to be together. I cherish the times we do sit together. You lean towards the back of the bus and pretend to talk to your friends, while all along we both know that our time together is precious. The best times are when you read your book and lean towards me as we go around the corners. Subtle, but I know we both enjoy those times. I feel the pressure of your thigh, pressed tight against mine, long after we get off the bus. Sometimes you even drop your books, right near me. I pick them up and hand them to you, and the touch of you as your fingers brush mine, sends electric shocks through me. We are so good together.

Today though, you are deep in conversation with Joe. I try and listen in, but the constant hubbub on the bus drowns you out. I gaze through the steamy window as the bus takes us to the inevitable reality of school.

As the bus stops at our final destination, we all pile off and walk towards the school gates. Maybe after school, the bus will be busy and you will sit near me. I hope so, as it’s been a while and you know how good we are together.

You walk off, without another look in my direction. I don’t know why you have to treat me like this in public. It’s stupid really, when I know we are meant to be.

I meet up with Jenny and we both simultaneously roll our eyes. “Nothing to report,” I say, and we sigh in unison. But soon, I am sure, there will be. I watch you disappear into the swarming mass of people, perfectly clueless. © Rebecca Emin 40

The Pages

Poetry

This is a poem that I wrote about my step-daughter.

H Two people thrown together We had no choice about it, did we?

One small hand into a bigger one, You changed my life with your smile.

So small, at first, but we grew together, A love that deepened, with each passing day.

From that point where I knew it would always be “us”.

You are part of what makes us complete.

An honour that I always treasure Our contact now offered by you Sometimes absent, yet always here with me, You still change my life with your smile.

© Rebecca Emin

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The Pages

Short Story

BMI Baby. Taking Candy from Adults The dragon and her winged sister were chatting on the phone last week and decided it would be nice to get together; they haven’t seen each other for all of a month. She came down here last time, so it was the fire breather’s turn to go up there. Up there, being Glasgow.

When she goes to Scotland she normally goes by coach, it takes about 8 hours and you see nothing but motorway all the way up. Chris, (hot breath’s sister,) has been travelling up and down by plane for the last couple of years. It only takes an hour and she reckons it’s so cheap it’s virtually free.

So the missus decided to fly this time.

As I’m a PC mechanic by trade I was nominated to book the flight online; it was even cheaper that way. Crikey, I thought, if we save any more money they’ll be paying us to fly with them. So, encouraged by this prospect I logged in to their website, found the flight info page, typed in the dates and times of departure and booked her onto the 10 am Saturday flight. She was due to come back the following week and the return flight was available. This was so easy that I was already planning a trip abroad myself while I was filling in her details. Prague would be nice, or should I head for warmer climes? Palma, Tenerife?

Two mouse clicks later I was faced with the flight prices and there was a special on the Saturday morning flight. £10 to Glasgow and £10 return. Chris was right, this really was cheap. I thought about getting her a window seat, then decided to save the extra cash, skipped drinks and food, she could eat before she left, nor did I bother with the offer of a bronzed, handsome, muscle-bound masseur. She could call an escort agency when she got there if she wanted one of those.

Then I got to the add- ins, and the high I was gliding on suddenly hit turbulence.

There was airport tax, bag tax, green tax, fuel tax, being mean tax, (for not having the sandwich and masseur,) and getting angrier by the minute tax. (Okay I made that one up.)

All in all, the total cost of the flight had gone from £20 to almost £70 and we hadn’t taken into account airport car parking charges at both ends for dropping her off and picking her up.

Just before hitting the ‘sod off I’m not paying that, button,’ I thought I’d better check the price of the coach. That came in at £60, there wasn’t too much difference and she would save all those hours travelling. So I thought ‘sod the expense.’ and paid the extra £6.

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I could always remind her of my generosity the next time she pulled me up for getting the cheap washing up liquid when she sent me on an errand.

Time passed, then about ten days ago, she received a letter from BMI Baby telling her that the flight had been cancelled and that we would have to go online and book another one. There was no option for the original day of departure. Instead we had the choice of the Friday evening or the Monday afternoon.

Monday was out as I had an appointment with three of my friends and the pub landlord.

(I’m on holiday too.) Anyway she was booked into a hotel in the wilds of the highlands, (Ullapool) from Sunday onwards. Friday was the only viable option, but she didn’t finish work until 3.30 and she would have to get home from town, shower, dismantle the kitchen sink for packing into the case etc, then get to the airport two ridiculous hours before the flight took off at 7.00. It was going to be tight.

The only flight available for coming back was on the Sunday night. Jackpot! An extra day away for her and an extra day of peace for me. This wasn’t so bad after all, I didn’t even quibble at the extra £8 each way the new flights were costing.

I offered to pick her up from work and drive her to the airport, it's only twelve miles away but in the rush hour it can take a while.

She had a full, cooked lunch at work to keep her going until she landed, I skipped lunch, planning to head for the chip shop after dropping her off. (No home cooked meals for me for the next 10 days; it was going to be pizza and takeaway heaven all the way.)

Picking her up was the easy bit. The traffic on the way home was heavy and we didn’t get back until 4 .00 pm. By the time she’d showered, packed her bags and strapped on the sink, it was pushing 4. 45. I offered to make a sandwich as she got ready, but she said she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry and could wait until she got to Scotland to eat.

I put my foot down and despite getting stuck behind a Royal Mail van for a mile or two we made it bang on time. Then we got to the check in queue and I began to understand why they asked us to get there two hours early.

For a small regional airport the place was heaving. There were families and groups of young people standing around waiting for their check in desk to open. Two desks were open at the BMI Baby section and we joined the throng that snaked its untidy way across the floor. It didn’t take long to notice that one of the women was far more efficient at her job than the other. The younger of the two was getting through the travellers at quite a rate, but her colleague, or ‘beehive’ as she became known, (her hair was piled up 60s style, she wasn’t a honey,) took an interminable amount of time over each passenger.

After she had processed five of them she looked at her watch, looked at the lengthening queue, looked at her watch again, sighed, motioned towards the next in line to step forward, thought better of it and picked up her mobile phone instead.

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Ten minutes later she was still deep in conversation with some guy called, ‘fun cheeks’ and the crowd was getting restless.

On the stroke of 5.30 she downed phone, grabbed her coat and trotted off to the coffee bar for her hard earned break. Mumblings of, ‘tart,’ ‘lazy bitch’ and worse, followed her across the room, but if she heard any of it she didn’t let on.

She was replaced five minutes later by a dark haired girl with a fixed, lop sided grin and a wonky eye. The dragon looked at me and I grinned evilly, Doreen cringed, crossed her fingers and hoped against hope that we didn’t end up at her counter.

By now the waiting hordes were getting quite agitated, they became almost manic when just as we were about to step forward to Wonky’s counter, an old lady with a huge wheeled case came hurtling out of nowhere bypassing the queue completely. She was in front of Wonky before I realised what had happened. I turned to the baying crowd for sympathy and got it in spades.

Cries of, ‘Bloody old hag’, ‘what the ****’, filled the air. The old girl didn’t flinch.

Wonky finally produced her tickets, taped the flight details to her luggage, smiled a lop sided grin and wished the old woman a pleasant flight.

We eventually got to the check in desk powered by Miss Efficiency 2008. She didn’t have time to greet or smile at us. Her hands were a blur as she went about checking the dragon onto the flight. I tried to start a whinge about the time we’d spent in queue but was silenced with a curt, ‘shhh’.

Tamely, I did as I was asked. There would be no light hearted banter with this one.

Doreen had a grin the size of a dinner plate on her face; it lasted all of 30 seconds.

The moment her case was placed on the scales we knew we were in trouble. A twinkle appeared in ME 2008’s eye. ‘You’re over weight,’ she snapped.

‘I know,’ I stuttered, ‘but there are people bigger than her in the queue.’

Fixing me with a look that could have frozen a Vindaloo curry in two seconds flat, she pointed to the case. ‘Overweight, and by 3kg’s’.

I groaned and looked at the dragon, ‘It’s the sink, I bloody told you.’

Doreen ignored me and asked how much the excess would be. ‘£18. £6 a kilo.’ ‘£9 extra, each bloody way,’ I exploded. ‘She’s going to Scotland, not Australia.’

‘It’s £18 each way, I’m afraid,' she sneered.

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I doubted she was afraid of anything. I bet she watched The Exorcist alone.

Eventually we were ticketed, the two ton container was sent off on the conveyor and we wandered across to the kiosk to pay our, ‘heavy,’ tax. Part way across the floor I was stopped by a BMI Baby rep trying to get mugs like me to take on a ‘super value,’ BMI credit card. I told him what I thought of BMI, informed him that because of his company’s charging policy, I now had to take out a second mortgage to send my wife on holiday and stormed off leaving him speechless for probably the first time in his working life.

I walked with the dragon to the departure lounge and gave her a peck on the cheek and a goodbye whinge, As I walked away I heard the announcement that the 19.10 BMI Baby flight to Glasgow was delayed and would now not leave until 21.45. I nodded my head sagely.

Because of the delays and queuing, I found I had to pay a fiver to get out of the airport car park, not the £1.60 I was expecting. On getting home, (without chips, I couldn’t afford them anymore,) I received a text message from the dragon telling me that she’d just paid £7.80 for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

I didn’t reply.

© Trevor Belshaw

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Stop Press!

Press Release (from the official press release page) 100 Stories for Queensland: Writers across the world rally for flood victims.

Brisbane, Australia 14th January, 2011, 10:40pm – unprecedented flooding in the Australian state brings the worldwide writing and publishing community together in the charity anthology 100 Stories for Queensland.

Queensland (Australia) experienced the worst flood event in its history with 75% of the state declared a disaster zone. Queensland is not a small state, measuring more than 1.72 million square kilometres (25% of Australia’s land mass). It is four times the size of Japan, nearly six times the size of the UK and more than twice the size of Texas in the USA. This is not a small flood or localised event. Its effects are being felt by more than 70 communities (including the capital city of Brisbane) and tens of thousands of people, many of them in rural areas. Other areas of the state have been flooded since before Christmas, with a number of communities West of Brisbane evacuated for the second time in two weeks.

Flash flooding in Toowoomba and Lockyer Valley saw a wall of water up to seven metres high surge through the CBD of Toowoomba and on into unsuspecting townships below, including Grantham, Murphys Creek and Postmans Ridge. In Brisbane more than 20,000 homes are inundated and the river, despite peaking below the 1974 height yesterday morning, is expected to remain at dangerous levels into the weekend.

16 people are confirmed dead and the death toll is expected to rise. More than 50 people remain unaccounted for.

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Following the floods, the cyclone Yasi, hit Queensland, too, causing further damage.

100 Stories for Queensland is a charity anthology following in the footsteps of 100 Stories for Haiti and 50 Stories for Pakistan. The anthologies were created by Greg McQueen, who in the face of the devastation of the Haiti earthquake and the Pakistan flood, appealed to the global writing community to donate stories for the projects.

100 Stories for Queensland is headed by Brisbane resident and co-owner of eMergent Publishing, Jodi Cleghorn, and UK author, Trevor Belshaw. The management team is made up of Maureen Vincent-Northam, David W Robinson and Nick Daws who all worked on the Haiti and Pakistan anthologies with McQueen. They are assisted by a growing band of 20 volunteer readers and editors from across the globe. McQueen is working behind the scenes, organising the audio book and podcasts in conjunction with UK author and podcaster Em Newman.

Design and layout will be done in Western Australia with Russell B Farr founding editor of Ticonderoga Publications producing the cover art and Tehani Wessely founder of FableCroft, doing the inside design.

“I continue to be blown away by the generosity of people. And it is not just the sheer numbers of submissions arriving every hour, but all the people working behind the scenes. To date we have 30 people working in various roles from reading and editing, to layout and design,” Cleghorn said. “It makes me proud to work in the literary field.

Writers, editors and publishers have big hearts, and they don’t think twice when you ask them to dig deep.”

The book is due for release late February/early March. 100% of profits will be donated to the Qld Premier’s Flood Relief Appeal.

For more information contact: Jodi Cleghorn (Australia) Email: storiesforqld@emergent-publishing.com Twitter: @jodicleghorn Trevor Belshaw (UK) Email: 100storiesforqld@trevorbelshaw.com Twitter: @tbelshaw

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The Pages

Competition

Flash 500 Competition: In its second year, this quarterly open-themed competition has closing dates of 31st March, 30th June, 30th September and 31st December, and all you have to do is write a complete story in 500 words.

The results will be announced within six weeks of each closing date and the three winning entries each quarter will be published on the website (see below).

Entry fee: £5 for one story, £8 for two stories Optional critiques: £10 per story Prizes will be awarded as follows: First: £250 plus publication in Words with JAM Second: £100 Third: £50 Highly commended: A copy of The Writer’s ABC Checklist Payment options and entry instructions can be found at: http://www.flash500.com/

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The Pages

DWBP

The Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist See What Flows Forth Fun! I’ll give her fun. She’s no fun at all. Not at the moment, anyway. Her mood has taken a dive along with the weather and she’s filled with self-doubt. Perhaps there’s something about that Norse ‘Angst’ after all (something she has always argued against).

Why worry? Just write, I say. See what flows forth! Ha! That’s if I’m lucky. But if she thinks that I’m going to hang around while she analyses the pros and cons of the worthiness of my story, she’s got another thing coming. I’d rather re-visit old haunts.

Some of them anyway.

Seriously, though, Anna’s going through some stomach-churning moments and I suppose I’d better let her have a little time to think about where she wants my story to go.

Not that I intend to allow her to wander off wherever she thinks fit. She seems to forget that I’m all but written, if you see what I mean. Anyway, there’s always room for a bit of movement, a little leeway. I know that. But she isn’t getting away with completely rewriting me, because then I’ll no longer be me and might as well give up this whole thing.

Even a Would-Be-Protagonist can only take so much.

Well, that was yesterday. Today Anna’s alter ego was overrun with boisterous children and would you believe it - in the middle of the hullabaloo, Anna and I managed to have some quality time together. Quite funny though. She was writing about a very quiet episode in my early existence as children bounced off the walls around her and the sound barrier was breached every few minutes. I’d have hid behind the cushions if it weren’t for the fact that the children were flinging them at one another.

I can’t quite see how Anna managed to get into that quiet place in the midst of all that chaos and noise, but she did. And it did me a bit of good, too, even if it’s all a bit slow going, for my liking. I’ve been in that place before, and that’s one of those places I don’t really want to see again. So get on with it, Anna!

I need her to move on, but she’s having some qualms about the setting of my beginning. I see her problem. How can you describe nothingness? Is there anything to describe if there’s nothing there to describe? And if there’s something, then surely it’s not nothingness? Sorry, but I’m still wondering about that myself. I have lots of unanswered questions, but I was told in no uncertain terms once, that however much I tried to find answers to some questions, I would never ever find the answers. Some questions are unanswerable, apparently. That’s where the imagination comes in handy!

I think I’ll leave Anna to think. Nobody said I had to - at least not this far down the line. So I’m not going to. But I’ll be back! © Anna Reiers

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