The Pages Issue 8

The Pages Winter Issue

Issue 8 Jan/Feb/March 2010 (Quarterly)

The Pages is brought to you by www.theapprenticewriter.webs.com

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The Pages

Contents

CONTRIBUTORS:…………………………………………………………………………p 3 EDITORIAL: ………………………………………Marit and Stina……………………... p 6 REVIEW of Issue 7:…………………………………..Myra King………………………..p 8 COMPETITION :………………………New Annual Competition ………………………..p11 POETRY:……Ghost Words……………………Kristina Meredith……………………….p16

…….The Crossing…………………………….J.M.Artes………………………..p25 ………Swine Flu…………………………Trevor Belshaw………….....................p29 ………Peacemakers………………………...Rosa Johnson……………………….p35 ………Free?.....................................................Debbi Guzzi……………………….p36 ………I Believe………………………...Marilyn Sylvester……………………… p38 ………We Grow and Divide……………………J.M.Artes……………………….p44 SHORT STORIES:

………The Changeling…………………………Jean Knill……………………….p37 ………Ms Average……….......................Kristina Meredith………………………p39 A SLICE OF LIFE: …..Art Work on the Tube…....June Gundlack………………............p40 ARTICLES:

.……….Travel: Mt.Teide – An Experience to Savour…D.Robinson…………...p12 ……….Pick of the Web…Tracy’s Hotmail….Trevor Belshaw………………….p17 ………..On Writing: The Perils and Pitfalls of Market Research…J.Knill……….p21 ………..News Snippet……………………….Marit Meredith……………………p23 Clydach and Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream…M. Meredith…………p24 ………..100 Stories for Haiti……………………………Greg McQueen...……...p26 ………..On Health: A Dastardly Complaint…TrevorBelshaw…………………...p27 ………...Portrait of a Writer: Graham Sclater…………………………………….p31 ……......Garden at Little Oak 6………………..Rosa Johnson…………………...p41 ………..On Writing: Like the Titanic without the Screams…Di Rayburn……….p43 PRESS RELEASES: ….Bipolarity and ADHD to Folding Mirrors…Marc Latham……..p20

……….Hatred is the Key…………………….Graham Sclater……………………p30 ……….Ellipsis………………………………....Nikki Dudley…………………....p45 BOOK SHELF: ……………………………………………………………………………..p32

PICK OF COMPETITIONS: ……….Flash 500…………………………………………………………………..p46 ………..The Margaret Munro Gibbon Memorial Poetry Comp……………………p47 ………..Tips Pamphlet Competition………………………………………………..p48 DIARY PAGE:

………DWBP……………………………………Anna Reiers…………………..p49

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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 published a collaborative book of poems and prose, Another Haircut? in aid of charity, through Lulu, earlier this year, 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, including her new gluten free blog at www.writingtheglutenfreedietandshortstory.blogspot.com See also: www.annareiers.webs.com www.redroom.com/member/Marit www.thehouseofmeredithpublishing.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 2 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 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

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.

After spending his twenties travelling the world, Marc Latham studied history and communications studies at university, and graduated with a PhD in 2005. He has since been building a freelance writing career from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website, and has had several articles published. Booklocker is publishing an eBook memoir about his first travel around Europe and the Middle-East, including time spent amongst the 1980s WorkerTraveller communities that nomadically followed the seasonal work.

Contact: marc@greenygrey.co.uk - www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog

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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.

Trevor Belshaw has, after years of talking about it, finally taken up the writer’schallenge.

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 Guildsaward 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.) www.twitter.com/tbelshaw Check out Tracy’s Hotmail – a great read – at www.trevorbelshaw.com/wordpress as well as Trevor’s new story blog at http://thewestwichwritersclub.blogspot.com/

June Gundlack’s love of writing started 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.

Marilyn Sylvester BA (Hons) is a part-time FE tutor. Her 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.

Marilyn says: the students were mainly established writers, which turned out to be a reciprocal experience that both they and I enjoyed very much. 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. She has so far had three 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. Many of her poems have also been shortlisted.

Graham Sclater studied at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Exeter, where he concentrated on creative writing for the screen and television. His key interests are teleplays, and screenplays as well as developing and writing original drama series’ for television. Those recently completed include “Street life”- Buskers, “The Other Side of the Tracks” and an action/drama series “Pebble on the Beach,” set on the beautiful island of Cyprus.

See press release pages for more information and contact details.

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Deborah R. Guzzi was born in Camden, Maine, U.S.A. First published at the age of sixteen, her works, poetic and photographic, have been included in the 2000 & 2001 literary journals of Western Connecticut University’s Helix. In the past few years, she has self-published two book available at www.empathic-touch.com. The first book is titled “The Healing Heart” and is a sampler of three distinct styles of her writing. The second book “Heaven and Hell in a Nutshell” focuses on love, when it is Heaven, when it is Hell, and when it is undeniably present as a gift of God. Debbie owns and operates Empathic Touch an alternative healing site for massage and Reiki training. For the purpose of book purchase, photo purchase or healing, she can be reached at aleezadelta@aol.com or 203-452-0919.

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 involved in the music business for over 35 years. He is at present in the middle of writing his first novel.

David Robinson has been a writer since his teens, and semi-professional since the mideighties. 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. He lives with his wife and crazy West Highland White called Max, on the edge of the moors northeast of Manchester.

Greg McQueen is an author from the UK based in Denmark. He writes mostly for teens, dark stories with a twist of classic adventure, and, not-so-mostly, other stuff, like short stories and articles. He is working on his debut novel for teens, Roadkill, and is the founder of the 100 Stories for Haiti Book Project.

Greg's website: www.ireallyshouldbewriting.ne

Cover image by Marilyn Sylvester.

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The Pages

Editorial

The winter has been upon us around here for quite some time, so it’s about time we brought you the Winter Issue. I’m sure you’ll find it worth the wait, as we have another collection of short stories, articles, poems and more for your enjoyment.

We have contributions from ‘old faithfuls’ as well as from writers appearing in the magazine for the first time, and putting it together has been a joy. Still, it is the issue that almost wasn’t.

On the penultimate day of the old year – when our village was still blanketed in snow – I (Marit), a born and bred Viking, who should be used to snow and ice (if in the somewhat distant past) – was reminded that pride stands before a fall. Literally.

I had promised myself, and possibly the entire membership of Facebook, that I was going to make a snowman – after my visit to the doctor’s. But – as I was waiting for my lift, I thought I’d make it beforehand, for my youngest grandson to see as they arrived to collect me. Why not? I had a little spare time. Why not, indeed.

I went for the miniature kind, perching it on the wall edging the road. My hands were cold and they haven’t the strength to roll giant snowballs – so little ones it was. Not the best of results, but hey, a few chocolate raisins for eyes and buttons, and a couple of little twiglets for arms, and I would have something resembling a snowman at least. I popped back indoors to raid the chocolate raisins, picking up my camera en route, and went back outside to adorn the little fellow with the finishing touches, and photograph the evidence.

Remind me that chocolate raisins are for eating.

As I stepped across the snow onto the road, my foot went from under me and I crash-landed in the road. Quick check: camera okay, clothes okay, no broken bones – in that order.

For a couple of seconds I lay there looking up into the sky wondering what to do next. With artificial knee joints, it was impossible to roll over onto my knees. Ah, but as I was just outside my house, and my husband was still in bed in the one front bedroom – and one of my daughters in the other – surely I could shout for help? They’d hear me, wouldn’t they? Well, I did, and they didn’t. No panic.

Yes, panic! Not that I did (I was quite calm – until afterwards). A big white van was reversing straight for me. It did not look good. The driver obviously hadn’t seen me. I mustered all my strength and rolled over the snow verge and up against the wall. At least my head wouldn’t get squashed first!

The van was getting perilously close as a driver on the junction down below screeched her car to a halt and jumped out, flagging the van driver down. The van stopped 6 feet away from me, and I’m here to tell the story – and keep The Pages going. Phew.

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As for the snowman, he remained armless – if not harmless, until one of my grandsons knocked his head off. *

And so to more serious matters. Greg McQueen has written a short article highlighting why he called for submissions to publish 100 Stories for Haiti – and with the book due to be published soon, we hope that you will join us in purchasing copies of the book. Not only will you be helping a most deserving cause, you’ll also have 100 stories to feast on. See p26 and the Book Shelf.

We have hard - hitting poetry, too, with the poets pulling no punches, as well as humour and thought provoking pieces. A little help with marketing needed? Jean Knill has written a great article on the matter. And if it’s a little sunshine you need, David Robinson’s travel article might be just the thing for you.

The review is a must-read for any contributor, and Myra King has again done us proud with her excellent review.

Happy reading!

PS Don’t forget to look out for the competitions, including our own first annual competition.

Marit and Stina

Photo: © Marilyn Sylvester 7

The Pages

Review

Review for The Pages Issue 7

By Myra King

The Pages, Anniversary Issue 7, is word-full of poetry, great stories, interesting articles, and information from book reviews and new books to up-coming writing opportunities.

Wonderful photography too, from the delightful cover pic to those photos that window the outlooks of the travel and garden articles.

Truly something for everyone!

Firstly my congratulations to Martha Hubbard, for her winning story Circular Road. I agree with everything Marit said about this story. Well done!

Trevor Belshaw’s very well written and witty poem, Celebrity Rules, bounces the idea in verse and rhyme that if Celebrities govern the media, why not let them govern the country as well? It finishes with John Cleese as Prime Minister! I’m sure all TP readers will agree with that, Trevor, but just don’t mention the war!

Fav line: “Will kick out the peers with catcalls and jeers and adopt the celebrity culture.”

There’s great cadence measured only by the in-depth sadness in Trevor’s other poem, The Unwelcome Guest. This verse sums it up beautifully: I try to bring your face to mind, bring beauty to this place, But all I see is my enemy wrapped in death’s embrace.

In A Woman’s View, by Diane Rayburn, titled Take one with Water, Diane cooks up an interesting and insightful mind-recipe on fast food and faster food yet to come!

Fav line: “No wonder there are so many problems with comfort eating, it’s enough to drive the saint in the supermarket to chocolate éclairs.”

Diane also ignites a cracker of a premise in Bangers and Bins on bringing up kids.

My fav line in this sums it up so well: “So I guess I come out on the side of those who say we are overprotecting our kids, to their detriment.” Great reading!

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Paola Fornari Hanna’s travel article, Roman Ramble, takes us on a poignant and captivating stroll with her parents through the streets of Rome. We share with them the sculptures of the past, in art and mind… grand photos – spellbinding writing!

Fav line: “My father may not be proud of being born Italian but I am proud on his behalf.”

In Paola’s poem Sweet Little Lies, my Fav line “and he wished for one last lie: that it meant nothing,” lingers in my memory still - the mark of a very good poem.

In Valentino Vibes, Paola shows us her playful side and looks wonderful too, in her designer “black pants with pseudo leather strips down the sides.” Certainly the bargain of the century buy!

An especially interesting and informative article, David Robertson’s aptly named, From Keyboard to Bookshelf takes us step by step, with sometimes a back step or three, as David self publishes his book Twaddle from DW with the help of online publisher, Lulu - in my opinion one of the best. I totally agree with Marit Meredith’s review: “Give your chuckle muscles a bit of exercise. You deserve it!” Great book, and it’s wonderful that David is donating part proceeds (from now until March 2010) to Save the Children’s Fund. Good onya Davo! (that’s Aussie speak!)

Julia Cathcart’s short story The Table was very skilfully written; I had a lump in my throat for most of it. Loved the reference to the two cups and how the mother had kept them and how the daughter's perception of them had changed.

Lizzie was an incredibly strong character - the premise of her loving the giving and not the owning - wonderful writing. A well deserved shortlisting in the JBWB Summer Comp.

The sun shines through the photos in Rosa Johnson’s The Garden at Little Oak 5. (I do so love that name!)

But she apologises for no butterfly pics, stating: “They are much fleeter of wing than I am of foot.”

And she has been very busy as usual, blanching and freezing freshly picked vegetables and filling the small freezer with fruit for later jam and pudding making. Self-sufficiency at its best.

Rosa’s poem, Sincerely Yours, has great rhythm which stirs up a deeper meaning: Fav line: “He got his new legs, an inch gained in height.” In Rosa’s poem, Manners Maketh the Man, my fav line was: “For most men are blokes who leave women till last.” Once again it makes one think. Wonderful poems!

And then Rosa’s light-hearted but very well written Mother Psychology held me tightly in its fictive grip, with its very believable characters and plot, right up to its satisfying conclusion. “Aha!” I said out loud.

Fav line: “I allow myself an inward smile hoping no one will notice.”

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Kristina Meredith’s hilarious short story, Too Late, jumps right in with both feet of a “webbed quality”. Intrigue from the first line to the very emotive last line! Extremely well drawn and believable characters live a life of their own on the canvas of Kristina’s page. And the dialogue is spot on.

Fav lines: “So he didn’t see her mouth gaped open like a fish in suspended animation.” And “A penis shrunk to the size of a cooked ‘standard’ sausage”. I’m chuckling as I write this!

The reflective and intricate work of Marc Latham’s Creating a Folding Mirror poem, is best summed up in my Fav line from it: “Illuminated and shining bright, in reverent glory.”

Marc has cleverly created this poem from the image: God and society: Thomas Girtin’s Kirkstall Abbey. And the sign of a fine poem? - I close my eyes and the image is evoked once more!

Marit Meredith’s latest instalment of WBP: Would Be Protagonist, Belting Up, has a different feel to it. A verbal truce has been drawn between Anna and WBP and the white flag of cooperation is flying high. Although WBP still reflects, and rightly so, “it was definitely my mouth she was putting words into”.

WBP still has no name but is happier with the prospects of be written into more solid existence.

The last line, reflecting this with its double meaning, also shows us that WBP knows it’s not going to be that simple.

Fav line: “But there might just be a rough road ahead, so I’m belting up”. This is brilliant innovative writing - bring on the next instalment!

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The Pages New Annual Competition Annual Short Story and Poetry Competition This issue we are announcing our annual writing competition.

We invite you to write a short story or poem using ‘Yesterday’ as your inspiration. It doesn’t have to be about yesterday – anytime before today will do! Actually, you can feel free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish. Perhaps ‘Yesterday’ is the name of a pet, or a place (or a planet) – whatever it is that fires your imagination.

For additional inspiration we’ve included a photograph of our senior editor in her heyday! Perhaps you have your own photograph that could provide you with inspiration and ideas for your Short Story or Poem?

Whatever inspires you, your Short Story should be no longer than 1,500 words, and your Poem should be no more than 30 lines.

A selection of entries, including the winning entries, will be published in a Chapbook with the theme of 'Yesterday' (subject to the writers' approvals).

There is a first prize of £25 for the winning short story or poem, as well as a copy of the Chapbook .

The second prize winner will also receive a copy of the Chapbook.

Please email your entries to maritmeredith@aol.com All entries should be submitted by midnight (GMT) on the 30th June 2010.

The entry fee is £2.50 per Short Story or Poem , and you may enter as many times as you wish. You can find payment instructions under the ‘Competitions’ tab on www.freewebs.com/theapprenticewriter/

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The Pages

Travel Article Mt Teide – An Experience to Savour.

By David Robinson

For anyone holidaying in Tenerife, a visit to the Teide National Park should be high on the agenda. At over 3700 metres (12,000 ft) it is Spain’s highest peak and a major tourist attraction.

Our tour bus picked us up outside our hotel in San Eugenio, at 8:15. The driver then ran around several more hotels, picking up other passengers until the bus was full. It was turned nine o’clock when he left the coastal areas and headed inland.

It takes about 90 minutes climbing steep, narrow and winding roads reminiscent of the Italian Alps. We stopped for coffee in the village of Villaflor, before pressing on through pine forests and cacti decking the lower slopes of the mountain. The driver pulled over for a few minutes so we could take photographs. There was something eerie about taking pictures while looking down on the clouds.

View from the Pine forest with clouds below We finally arrived on the Las Cañadas plateau, at about 10:30. Here we were confronted with rugged and random rock sculptures formed from the lava flows of previous eruptions, steep escarpments on all sides, and the centrepiece, the magnificent Mt Teide, previously a tiny cone visible from our hotel balcony, now presented in all its majesty, dominating the entire landscape.

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The Teide National Park stands at about 2500 metres (about 7,500 ft). For those hardy souls who wish to carry on to the peak, there is a cable car, the Telerifico, which takes you there in 8 minutes. At €25 (about £23 at the current exchange rate) it’s expensive and it still doesn’t take you all the way to the peak. You have to climb the last 200 metres.

The Telerifico Cable Car takes passengers to the summit

During the peak holiday months, you can queue for up to two hours. When we visited (January 2010) it was more like 15 minutes. Arthritic knees and a recent heart scare persuaded me that the plateau was high enough. Neither of us wanted to go on to the peak.

There’s plenty to occupy the visitor on the plateau below. There is a souvenir shop. Our guide warned us that it was very expensive, but that did not deter my wife from stretching my credit card a little closer to its limit.

We spent and hour and a half on the plateau, taking photographs, enjoying a cup of coffee in the cafeteria/bar, and taking in the breathtaking scenery around us.

Boarding the bus again at noon, the driver brought us back just a few miles and pulled into Las Roques de Garcia, so we could take more photographs. I took the opportunity to grab many shots of two of Tenerife’s most famous landmarks. The Finger of God and the Balancing Rock, captured in the same shot with Teide providing a magnificent backdrop.

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The Finger of God (left) The Balancing Rock and Mt Teide

Looking around we had panoramic views across the Lunar landscape of Las Ca単adas, the setting for scenes from many movies, including The Ten Commandments, Planet of the Apes and Star Wars.

Las Ca単adas Lunar Landscape

Our return to the coast was via a different route to the outbound journey. The roads were just as narrow, just as steep and winding, but the driver brought us back via the western end of the island, near Puerto Santiago and the famous cliffs of Los Gigantes, another legacy of Teide, formed when huge lava flows met the sea.

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Stopping for coffee at a large hypermarket in the town of Chiguergue, we discovered that their prices were actually dearer than those of the souvenir shop at the cable car station. But once again, it did not stop my wife exercising my plastic.

The driver dropped us outside our hotel at 3:30 in the afternoon, by which time we were both exhausted but satisfied that it had been worth it.

If you’re planning a holiday in Tenerife, then a visit to Mt Teide and Las Cañadas National Parks is a must, but there are a few things you need to be aware of.

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On the day we went, the temperature at sea level was a pleasant 23o(73oF). It was much colder on the plateau, 7500 feet higher up. Our holiday rep had advised us to dress for a late autumn day in England, and he was not wrong. The skies were clear and sunny, but instead of shorts, we wore trousers and we both carried woolly jumpers.

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UV light is a problem in the Canaries even at sea level. In the thinner air of the national park, it’s an even bigger danger. We used factor 30 sun lotion, and photochromic glasses.

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I suffer with my ears and I find descending in an aircraft uncomfortable, sometimes painful. The journey down from Teide was almost as bad and the bus had covered many miles before my ears finally ‘popped’.

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Our tour was billed as a half-day excursion, but it ran for 7 hours.

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If you want to climb the last 200 metres to the peak, you will need a pass, which can be obtained from the administration office in Santa Cruz. The pass will specify the date and time you can visit. Island authorities insist that this is the best way to protect Teide’s fragile ecosystem.

Tours to Teide National Park run from all the major resorts with numerous operators. You can buy tickets at one of the many kiosks on the main streets, and most holiday companies offer the tour.

Prices vary according to tour operators and your start/drop off point. We went from Playa de Las Americas and the cost was €20 (about £18GBP) per person.

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The Pages

Poetry

Ghost words Curling around my tongue like vine-weed they strangle smother I am silenced barely audible whispers move in gentle waves sounds thicken syrupy whispers saturate coagulate tumble bitterly uninvited from my lips Their words not mine.

Š Kristina Meredith

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The Pages

Pick of the Web

An Entry from Trevor Belshaw’s hilarious blog, Tracy’s Hotmail. To read more, see link at the end.

Hi Emma, I’m on my laptop at home today as I’ve had to take the day off work to get a handyman in after Halloween.

He’s ok too, a bit on the old side but he fills his overalls nicely. He keeps nipping in saying things like, ‘I wish you were this lump of putty,’ and ‘is there anything you’d like me to put up while I’m here?’ Randy old sod.

He even offered to do the repair for, ‘payment in kind.’

I’m considering it because I’m skint, but I don’t really fancy typing out his business letters or holding his ladders for him.

It all started about seven-ish on Halloween. I was just having a kip before the X Factor came on when I was woken up by someone thumping on my door; I was still half asleep when I opened it.

Christ I had a fright! There were a load of kids there, dressed up as witches and zombies; I nearly crapped myself.

One or two of them really looked the biz; they were wearing those masks you get from Asda with black cloaks and plastic wands. One was carrying Mr Morris’s black cat. I don’t think it wanted to be carried though because the kid had huge scratches all over her arms.

Some of them were pathetic. You know that nosey old cow around the corner, the one you call Mrs Lard Arse? Well, her youngest four kids were there, but they just had a bit of sheet wrapped round their shoulders and garden canes for wands.

There must’ve been about a dozen of the buggers all together and one of them was enormous for a kid. I’m sure it was that simple lad, Andy Buller from down the road, he’s twenty bloody two.

Anyway, when I opened the door they all shouted, ‘Trick or Treat?’ So quick as a flash I said, ‘Trick.’

That seemed to flummox them, they all stood there like shop window dummies. So I said, ‘Trick,’ again.

Then one of them said, ‘we don’t do tricks.’

I said, ‘so you’re just treaters then? Why didn’t you just say that to start with?’

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One of then got really shirty at that and said, ‘come on you old scrubber, give us the money.’

So I told them to piss off and slammed the door shut.

Next thing I know there are two women hammering at my front door. It was Mrs Lard Arse and her sister, the one with a mouth like a letterbox.

Lardy started before I got the door fully open.

‘What do you think you’re playing at, you tight bitch?’

Before I could answer Lardy, her sister gave me an earful.

‘Miserable cow.’

I’d had enough by now, the X Factor had started and I was missing it. I didn’t want to cause a scene though, so I tried to explain about the trick or treat thing, but they just didn’t get it.

‘It’s the rules,’ said slot gob, ‘You just say trick or treat, but it means treat. Every bugger knows that.’

I told her that was a load of crap and I might go to trading standards and complain. That shut her up for a while.

Mrs Lard Arse was having none of it though. She stuck her hand out and asked for a fiver.

I told her to piss off. I didn’t have five pence let alone a fiver, but I wasn’t going to let her know that.

She got real nasty then.

She told me she had eight mouths to feed and they all wanted fish and chips for Halloween and she couldn’t pay for that if tight bastards like me didn’t cough up. Then she said she was going to send her eldest round to sort me out.

I told her that I knew her eldest son was in the young offender’s prison and her next eldest was on an ASBO. That left her third eldest, who was about eight and I wasn’t too scared of her.

I thought that had just about sorted it but then my neighbour came out and started having a go at me about the racket. She was trying to watch ‘Strictly’ and couldn’t hear a word.

So Lardy and slot gob started having a whinge about me being mean for not giving their kids Halloween money and my bloody neighbour agreed with them.

She called me a mean bitch. I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, I told them that if they didn’t piss off I was going to call the cops. Half the bloody street was out by this time. That dirty old bugger at number 12 told me he’d come and help me out if I saw him right.

Lardy said, ‘it will take more than you’ve got to sort that slag out.’

I asked how she knew how much he’d got.

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In the end I just slammed the door in their faces and went back in to watch the X Factor.

Thirty seconds later a brick came through the glass panel on my front door. I had to stick the back of a corn flakes packet over the hole to keep the draft out.

When I got up on Sunday morning someone had chalked, ‘Tite Bich’ in huge letters across my bit of pavement. Typical of the retarded sods, none of them can spell bitch.

Right, better ring mum and see if she can lend me £50 for the handyman. The dirty old sod doesn’t want letters typing apparently.

See you at the weekend, babe.

Tracy.

© Trevor Belshaw

Read more at: www.trevorbelshaw.com/wordpress

The current ‘episode’ involves the topical subject of Swine Flu – tongue in cheek! You can Subscribe to Tracy’s Hotmail on the above website, and so get the updates hot off the press, so to speak.

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The Pages

Press Release

Bipolarity and ADHD to Folding Mirrors Press Release Marc Latham’s collection of poetry and philosophy covers almost all his adult life. The poetry starts with thoughts and rhymes inspired by rock music and ends with ekphrastic interpretations of ten Romantic paintings. The book therefore completely covers Marc’s journey from traveller diarist to established freelance writer.

The 112 page book starts on a high note, with poems thought to have been written on bipolar highs wondering about the poet’s relationship with Mother Earth, reaching for the skies, and telling how he hopes he has broken down the barriers to reach some sort of enlightenment.

I hope that lifts your spirits high enough to keep them above depression for the next dozen poems, as the book takes you deep into a bipolar low trough, with poems expressing alienation with the world and questioning the futility of it all. Marc’s survival hopefully provides a beacon of hope, and he does warn readers at the start that the poems are there to show that it is worth continuing through it all; to surf the wave; rather than trying to convince them there is no point to life on Earth.

Five poems of old social comment follow, and they seem quite topical in light of the credit crunch and exposing of the greed, hypocrisy, lies and corruption by those who are supposed to be setting an example for those of us lower in the social order.

A third of the way in, the book switches to the modern era, but the influences of the earlier poems are obviously there. The poems still focus on self-analysing the mind; on nature and the environment; and on social justice. However, a couple of poems seem to reveal a cynicism towards the counter-culture as well as mainstream culture now.

Just before the half way point of the book the Folding Mirror poems start. The eclectic poems that appeared previously are replaced by poems rigidly constructed, and this helps to focus attention on the words and messages. The poems range across a wide selection of topics: from politics and myth to oceans and space; and the seasons of the year and high mountain peaks to football and comedy.

Bipolarity and ADHD to Folding Mirrors is available to download as an ebook from Chipmunka, the mental health specialists, at: http://chipmunkapublishing.co.uk/shop/index.php?main_page=advanced_search_result&sear ch_in_description=1&zenid=4336c28b40781ceb537df3e81d846a96&keyword=marc+latham There are examples of Folding Mirror poems at: http://fmpoetry.wordpress.com Marc’s article on the Midnight Sun Marathon set in Northern Norway is out, too – and an excellent read. You can read it for free digitally at http://www.runningfreemag.co.uk/ You’ll find the article on page 37.

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On Writing

The Perils and Pitfalls of Market Research: a Light-hearted Look at a Serious Side to Writing How much time do you spend on your research on the publications markets? If you’re anything like me you’ll find it’s very easy to overdo it.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about the actual research – the things you find out about your markets – that can never be overdone. No, I’m referring to the time it takes. Here are some examples to show you what I mean.

My first port of call is internet research. Writelink.co.uk is just one of the great sources of on-line market information. When I first began to try and get published in the early 1980’s, I didn’t have this luxury of electronics that brings so much information straight to my desk.

But every year, more magazines have set up their websites, albeit more to attract readers than writers. So you can glean a lot this way. The problem lies in the links that send the unwary of in all sorts of fascinating directions –fascinating no doubt, but time consuming too.

And while you can do a lot of it on-line, there’s still no substitute for just reading or browsing the magazines. I’ve told all my friends about my need to do market research and, from time to time, some kind soul turns up at the door with a bundle of them that has been carefully stored for me for weeks or even months. This will be greeted with a cry of joy and profuse gratitude expressed over an hour-long pot of tea or coffee. Then, if I’m not very careful, the next three days might be spent avidly digesting their contents from cover to cover.

And what about my occasional visits to the newsagents next to the station? There I can comfortably browse for an hour or more without being accosted and required to spend any of my hard-earned cash. Other people dash in, pick out their favourites, make their purchases and rush out to catch trains or hurry home on foot; I am still there flicking through journals about cameras and caravans, horses and horticulture, travel and trade – you name it and I’ll take a look. Time marches on and I’ll probably be late back again. But all I was doing was market research.

The same thing can happen in the library. If I settle down with one or two of the Sunday newspaper magazines, meaning to give each a ten minute scan, the next thing I know I’m being politely asked to leave as it’s closing time and the staff wish to lock up and go home.

In the doctor’s waiting room I can find all sorts of treasures, though they can be well out of date so that has to be watched. My dentist is a sailing fanatic and always leaves his patients the last issue of Yachting, while his partner supplies the journal of the Royal Horticultural Society. My name usually has to be called more than once.

At home, when the cupboards and corners start overflowing with publications kept for market research, I have to have a ‘weeding’ day. I turn them all out and sort out the ones that are out of date and useless, or I might find duplicates or a great multiplication of issues. But before they go I have to make sure there is no justification for keeping them. My ‘weeding day’ could easily turn into a week.

21

Most years I’ll get the updated Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook. The cover of my 2005 edition carries a quote from the foreword written by Maeve Binchy, “A magic carpet that will carry you anywhere”. I’m sure you can imagine how that applies to me. Not only does it have listings of journals for the most obscure ideas; but there are all those articles about how to go about your freelance career; there’s always a forward by some famous writer who will offer you writing tips, and then reminisce about how it felt to get rejections and try to make you feel you are not alone and could easily end up in her shoes. I have to be sure I don’t miss anything of vital importance, so I just have to read every word.

Of course I do manage not to succumb to these temptations all the time, otherwise I’d never actually earn any money, but it does need a studied effort in self-discipline. I also feel it’s not totally unproductive to get side-tracked occasionally. Many of my most successful ideas have come to mind at times like these.

I often wonder whether all writers are compulsive readers like myself. If I’m not alone, we are lucky that part of our work involves what other people can only do in their leisure time.

In conclusion, I have a couple of thoughts about market research. Firstly, it’s so enjoyable it’s not like work at all. Secondly, a writer is never really off duty, whatever he or she is reading or experiencing: the mind is searching for clues about markets and ideas for future work.

© Jean Knill

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The Pages:

News Snippet

By Marit Meredith With the summer behind us, the autumn reminded us that winter would soon follow on its heels (and didn’t it just!), and if we wanted to put our ideas about doing something locally for Christmas – we’d better get our skates on (a little further on and skis would have been a better choice!).

Our main venture was Clydach Traditional Christmas Market – the first of what we intend to be an annual event – and as part of that we set up a Christmas Card Design Competition inviting local children to take part. The idea was to print up the winning designs – 1st and 2nd prize winners – in the two age groups, covering Infants and Juniors, then sell them in aid of Save the Children. We asked Rev Linda price to be our judge - and the resulting winning designs are pictured below.

The Nativity by Alys Eason: 1st Juniors

(£10 WHS voucher)

Rudolp by Thomas McKenzie Crawford: 2nd Juniors ( £5 WHS voucher) Santa flying over Igloo by John Powell: 1st Infants

(£10 WHS voucher)

Jolly Snowman by Owen Sherman: 2nd Infants.

( £5 WHS voucher)

Congratulations to the winners! We sold all of the 200 cards we printed up, making £50 for the charity, added to which we sold several books (24 Stories for Advent, for instance) with the profit going to the same charity. Total £75. Every little bit helps. Part of the Thank You email from The Save The Children organisation is copied below: ‘Thank you so much for making a donation today. Your gift of £75.00 really will help us change the lives of the poorest children… …

Once again, thank you! Your kindness really will make a difference.’

Our little village has history. Many locals will be unaware of its interesting past – along with the rest of the world. I enjoy delving into its past, and the following article is published on the community website. So, what is real – and what is anecdotal?

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The Pages

Article

Clydach - and Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream The story goes that Shakespeare himself not only visited Clydach on his travels, but that he also drew inspiration for Midsummer Night's Dream from local myths and superstitions.

The great Bard is said to have stayed at Clydach House when he stayed in the village - and was quoted as 'the stranger who came looking for the house of many windows' (which it still has to this day).

What would have spurred him on to come looking for this place, we'll never know, unless the legends of Cwm Pwca (Hobgoblins' Dingle - or Valley of Puck) were known further a-field, perhaps.

It has been suggested that his friend, Richard Price, son of Sir John Price, of the Priory, Brecon, was the person who first made Shakespeare aware of the Cambrian fairies and that when visiting his friend, he sojourned to 'the Valley of Fairy Puck' (The fairy Glen)- which became the principal machinery for his Midsummer Night's Dream - supposedly penned as he sat in what is now known as Shakespeare's Cave, in a dingle just above Cwm Pwca.

Cwm Pwca was where waters from the river Clydach mingled with waters from another stream - a place that filled people with dread, because of the malicious powers of some evil spirits believed to be residing there.

Cwm Pwca lies below Devil's Bridge (the bridge can be accessed by walking down past the Drum and Monkey in Blackrock, on through the subway under the Heads of the Valley Road, then continuing down towards the river). It is apparently called Devil's Bridge because it looks as though the face of the devil himself is hewn into the rock below. The river runs through a narrow channel at this point and drops straight down into a swirling pool below, which is called 'Pwll Cwn' - or the Dog's Pool. This dark and cavernous pool forms the centre of the valley called Cwm Pwca - and was where Shakespeare is thought to have visited and got his inspiration, if not his knowledge, of Puck, who he subsequently introduced into his Midsummer Night's Dream.

So is the Pwca of Clydach and the 'shrewd knavish sprite that frights the maidens of the villag'ry ... at every turn' one and the same?

It would certainly seem so... Š Marit Meredith

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The Pages

Poetry The Crossing I strip myself and take a look, My worldly wealth upon the shelf, My thoughts a theory yet to prove, But will I fear the crossing.

While I conform I’m just the same, As all the numbers in the frame, I’ll not ignore the wind that brings, The sound of Zion calling.

And in it’s song there lies a code, So many times the story told, But only those who know, Will have the vision.

With mind as sharp as tempered steel, My thoughts now dance upon the cusp, It’s time to take that leap into, The new me that is forming.

So look into this naked man, And see the aura that I am, And appreciate this natural form, Of purity we’re given.

Gone the status, gone the class, Gone the labels and the past, I’ll kiss the angel, who leads me through, The void that I am crossing.

© J.M.Artes

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The Pages

Article 100 Stories for Haiti

This isn't an appeal for charity. Neither is it a sales pitch for the book.

Here's what happened ... Having spent nearly a week trying my best to ignore images on the news showing disaster-stricken Haiti, I woke up one morning and thought, "Right, must do something."

I was supposed to finish my thrill-ride of a teen novel, Roadkill. My editor was waiting for the last 10,000 words. I was planning a holiday for when I'd finished, as I write this, I'm meant to be enjoying whatever sun there is in Malaga at this time of year.

I'm not in Malaga. I am at home in Denmark. At the computer. There's snow on the ground outside, but the kids in my neighbourhood aren't playing with it anymore. The snow is grey and slushy because it's been there since Christmas. The fun of the snow is gone.

My mind now drifts to a place where there isn't snow. A forgotten place. A place that needed our help before an earthquake forced us to remember it. A place that needs people to wake up with one thought, "Right, must do something."

Greg McQueen 100 Stories for Haiti comes out 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

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The Pages

On Health

A Dastardly Complaint Last Easter was a bad time for me health-wise. I was already suffering from a tight chest and a virus that wouldn’t surrender; giving me the lung capacity of a punctured bicycle tire. I had a nose that could run for England and a sore throat that made me sound more like Rod Stewart than he ever sounded in his life.

I acquired a limp after I damaged my leg walking into a garden ornament; a terracotta planter in the shape of a grinning cat, whose grin seemed to grow wider the minute my leg made contact. Had it not been a gift from my daughter- in-law it would now be smashed to pieces and used as drainage material in the bottom of my bigger pots. It would be no more than it deserved.

I was just thinking that life couldn't get much worse when I got hiccups. Not the common or garden variety either, when I do things I do things properly. These hiccups racked my aching body for nine days and almost drove me to despair.

I shouldn't have had them really, they came to me by accident; a side effect of taking tablets to cure the other malady that been plaguing me. Acid reflux.

I had it bad too; I was waking in the night with a blistered tongue and burns on the side of my mouth where the acid had settled while I was asleep. There were burns on my throat, on top of the soreness that was already there from the virus I was suffering from.

I was in a bad way.

I went to see the doctor about the reflux. He gave me some strong tablets to stop the acid from forming in my stomach. I think it worked, I didn't get any more acid attacks, but as they were repelled they sent in their best mate, hiccups.

What a nightmare. I was hiccupping every five seconds for two days non-stop. I could barely eat, had no sleep at all, my stomach felt like a very old, much kicked, over-inflated football.

I tried all the tricks I could think of and many I couldn't, to rid myself of the affliction. I consulted all the old people I knew, even the mad woman from number 47 (I'm sure she is a witch). I scoured the internet, I drank upside down, I held my breath. I got my wife to drop cold keys, lumps of ice and even a bag of frozen peas down the back of my shirt. I got my son to shout BOO at the top of his voice whilst leaping out like a mad, knife wielding burglar, from behind a door. I stood on my head and nearly drowned drinking pint after pint of liquid.

Then I went back to the doctor.

My own doctor wasn't available, so I saw the locum. She took a look down my throat, had a prod at my stomach, listened to my wheezing chest and told me to stop smoking (I haven't had a cigarette in 10 years), She then gave me a lecture about my diet, suggested I made an appointment for a prostate check (aaaaaaaaargh) and told me to buy some peppermint oil.

I got the strongest I could find and believe me, finding it wasn't easy. I hiccupped my way through five requests at five different chemists before I finally got my greedy hands on the fabled curer of all ills.

27

I also had a brainwave and purchased four packs of extra strong mints at the same time. If peppermint oil was the cure for this affliction, then super strong peppermints must surely hasten the end of my embarrassing problem.

Unfortunately, all that my flawed strategy succeeded in achieving was to morph my ordinary but annoying, hic, hic, hic, into hic, burp, hic, burp. This lasted for another two days. Stupidly I thought (hoped) the burping would be emptying my stomach of the gas that was (obviously) causing the hiccups.

How wrong can you be?

I went back to the doctors.

Her next trick was to prescribe some medication to stop the hiccups. This was a last ditch attempt apparently and does (I was assured) work on occasion. It is also a medication they give to psychotics and schizophrenics. I only had 25 mg's a day, the real nutters get a whole gram of the stuff. I felt woefully inadequate to be honest.

The capsules didn't stop my hiccups but at least they stopped me feeling paranoid about them.

Eventually the hiccups gave up of their own accord. I guess they got bored with me and went off to find a more deserving, appreciative host.

Nine tortuous days and nine hellish nights (which had seen me bouncing around like the girl in the exorcist movie) had left me totally shattered. I hadn't been able to work, I could barely think, my fuddled head felt like I was wearing an internal balaclava.

The PCs I fix for a living were still sitting in a patient, orderly queue, on the floor of my workshop.

Sadly, after hearing of my plight, just about every customer who rang to enquire about the health of their ailing machine, burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Most of them did at least attempt a half hearted apology before a second bout of giggling forced them to hang up.

Š Trevor Belshaw

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The Pages

Poetry

I recently had an email from ‘What The Doctors Don’t Tell You’, a reputable site which is very helpful in exploding medical myths as well as highlighting important medical issues, and looking into what helps and what doesn’t (and more). The latest issue highlighted the fact that the Health Chief in the European Council has stated that: ‘The swine flu pandemic scare was one of the greatest medical scandals of the century, and was engineered to increase the profits of the drug companies. Whether or not you agree is another matter, but the link to the article is below. Trevor’s poem seems very apt! http://www.wddty.com/swine-flu-pandemic-scare-one-of-greatest-medical-scandals-ofcentury-says-eu-chief.html

Swine Flu A friend of mine felt rather poorly so he rang up the doctor, who said, 'don't come round here to the surgery, we'll diagnose you remotely instead.'

The doctor said, 'have you been coughing, and sneezing and feeling quite hot?'

My friend said, 'yes, and I have a sore throat.' the doc said, 'that's swine flu you've got.'

The doc said,’ do you have a neighbour who can nip to the chemist for you?'

I'd better prescribe a bit extra, because she'll need some of it too.'

He said, 'Stay inside for a fortnight.

Don't go to work, call the boss.

We'll send someone round to nail up your door, and mark it with a big cross.'

'If you or your partner should die there, keep the body inside.

A cart will come round to collect it, we don't charge, you'll get a free ride.'

'Those Tami Flu pills have some weird side effects.

They're far worse than the illness, you know.

So if your nose is already running, you may as well go with the flow.'

© Trevor Belshaw

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The Pages

Press Release “Hatred is the Key” by Graham Sclater

Following the release in 2006 of “Ticket to Ride” by Flame Books and, “We’re gonna be famous” in 2009 by Tabitha Books, Graham Sclater has his latest novel published in the UK in February 2010. “Hatred is the Key” is his first historical novel and has taken him 8 years to complete. The novel has already been published in America where it is available from Amazon.com. The UK version will soon be available from Tabitha Books @ £9.99 plus postage and packing. http://www.tabithabooks.webs.com

On June 18, 1812, the United States declared war on Great Britain. Almost immediately they called for an invasion of Canada.

The initial American successes turned to a number of defeats resulting in English ships effectively blockading the American coastline and subjecting it to a series of hit and run raids and the capture of numerous ships.

The majority of the crew captured from the American ships were transported to Plymouth in south west England to spend their time in the notorious Dartmoor depot, a prison constructed primarily to house 3,000 French.

By the end of December 1814 the war was over but by then more than 10,000 American prisoners-of-war still remained incarcerated in what was the most evil of places. The war ended in December 1814 but the Americans remained incarcerated with limited rations until April 1815 when, following a failed break out, a horrific massacre occurred.

Soon after the prison was closed for a number of years before reopening as the harshest prison in England.

FROM THE REVIEWS: “Compulsive reading” “It felt like I was actually there”

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The Pages

Portrait of a Writer Graham Sclater Graham studied at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Exeter, where he concentrated on creative writing for the screen and television. His key interests are teleplays, and screenplays as well as developing and writing original drama series’ for television. Those recently completed include “Street life”- Buskers, “The Other Side of the Tracks” and an action/drama series “Pebble on the Beach,” set on the beautiful island of Cyprus.

Dave Penn, Adam Faith, John Altman and a number of actors, directors and producers have favourably reviewed his work and several television companies including Central Television have taken options on other television series’.

Born in Exeter in 1947 he spent many years living and playing Hammond organ in a number of groups in Germany and Scandinavia during the sixties. He returned to England in the early seventies where he worked as a session musician in many of the London studios.

An accomplished songwriter and musician, Graham has been featured in a number of arts and musical programmes and has performed and recorded with many artists including Jimi Hendrix, Fats Domino, Ritchie Blackmore, James Taylor, Elton John and numerous name musicians. Many of his songs have won competitions in France, Spain, Gibraltar and Japan as well as being recorded by many well-known artists.

Tabitha Music Limited, the independent music publishing company formed by Graham in 1975, has a catalogue of more than five hundred songs and has published hit records in much of Europe and the Far East including Japan. The company’s songs have been featured in a number of films, television programmes, documentaries and releases on major record labels including EMI, CBS and Phonogram.

Graham has produced records in varying styles as diverse as punk, folk, country, heavy rock and MOR in studios as far a-field as Trinidad and Jamaica. Many of these productions were released on the Tabitha Record label in the Benelux and Spain and major or independent labels around the World.

Graham’s production credits have resulted in a number of hit records by many artists.

Graham is now working on the novels “Love Shack” based in the east end of London and the red light district of Amsterdam and “Receivers” based around the current recession.

Active on developing a number of projects at any one time, Graham is a prolific writer who carefully researches his subject before reaching for the PC. Many of his projects involve music and his background enables him to combine an unusual mix of original music and script.

Graham Sclater enjoys working in many arenas, using first hand experience of as many subjects as possible, often spending time researching overseas.

He is at home writing and developing any concept. He has an understanding of budgeting, the logistics of production, location and direction. He is currently working on a number of film scripts including the titles: More than a woman and Lying eyes.

For interviews and press contact Graham -Tel: 01392 279914 Mobile: 0781 215 2651 e-mail: Tabithabooks@tabithamusic.com

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The Pages

The Book Shelf 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.

The logo is in place of the image of the front cover, as that’s not yet available. 100 Stories for Haiti comes out 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

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/

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 32

Bipolarity and ADHD to Folding Mirrors

By Marc Latham £5.00 Available from http://chipmunkapublishing.co.uk/shop/index.php?main_page=product_inf o&products_id=1470

GUILT

by Caroline Brazier Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.amazon.com

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 Newly Published! £7.99 Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.snowbooks.com/index.html 33

Tangled Roots

by Sue Guiney Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk

"The Rhinoceros and His Thoughts: short stories & poetry the best of the Whittaker Prize 2009" edited by Donna Gagnon Pugh (192pp) Available from Paperback £13.48 http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-rhinoceros rhinoceros-and-histhoughts/8043864

Ellipsis

by Nikki Dudley

£ 14.99 € 18.75 US$ 26 Publication Date: 10 May 2010-02-04 2010 Order from our distributors: BookSource 50 Cambuslang Road, BookSource, Cambuslang, Glasgow G32 8NB, UK Telephone +44 (0) 845 370 0063 Fax +44 (0) 845 370 0064

Another HairCut? A collaboration by various writers, written in aid of The Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association Available from: http://www.lulu.com/uk

100 Poems for Life

by Dane Smith-Johnsen Smith £15.50 Available from http://www.amazon.co.uk http://www.amazon.com

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The Pages

Poetry

PEACEMAKERS How many soldiers are dead?

Blown up, in a tank, by a roadside bomb.

The tank was spared reinforcements designed to save lives, instead the exchequer saved funding.

Were available supplies of boots, arms, flack jackets, goggles and earplugs sufficient to keep them safe?

Were helicopters available to ferry them to field hospitals? We’re afraid not!

They have no more need of them now. Safe in their body bags the heroes lie comfortably enough, though separated from a limb or two. Their families have been informed.

Their families have been told. What have they been told?

‘You will be pleased to know, your son, injured in battle is coming home; he lost an eye, and some fingers, but they were able to save his leg, to the knee.’

To another mother, they say, ‘Your child died, booby trapped while on patrol.’

Does the military offer comfort?

How do they tell the corporal’s wife, her husband was a brave man; while saving a comrade he lost his own life?

His family has been informed.

Your husband will have felt nothing, when defusing that explosive device. He was a courageous soldier.

He got it right every time – except the last.’

And - ‘Your father loved his job; here’s his watch, his wallet too – a hole right through it and through a photograph, of you.’

Those who loved them have been informed.

A transport plane rolls across the tarmac at RAF Lyneham bringing bodies of brave young men for repatriation.

Escorts, colleagues unload the flag-draped coffins.

Grieving families line the streets of Wooten Basset.

Citizens who did not know these heroes, are there to express thanks for care of our country.

For their bravery and commitment, we are forever indebted. © Rosa Johnson

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The Pages

Poetry Free?

By the way, Have you felt the stick today?

Missed a child support payment or alimony?

How’s it feel to live in the land of the free?

By the way, Can you afford the heat?

Does your daily menu include gene-altered meat?

How’s it feel to have no choice; to be run by a government who won’t hear your voice?

By the way, have you paid for the water you drink; because you don’t trust the kitchen sink’s?

How does it feel to be so free; to raise your hand to take a pee; to be arrested and detained to receive no trial but a waterboard’s pain?

How’s it feel to live in the land of the free; to have your passport chipped and your phone calls clipped?

Does anyone live in this mythical land?

If you do, please lend us a hand.

Tell us how to take care of our children and the sick.

How to live a good life without carrying the stick.

Please, please, tell me how to be proud of the world we live in right now. © Debbi Guzzi

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The Pages

Short Story

The Changeling “Mam, the fairies are in the garden.” Polly felt more resigned than cross.

“Are you telling porkies again, Tasha.”

“No Mam, honest. Come and see.”

“Not right now, lass.” But Polly’s mind stayed on her daughter and the strange feyness of her. Even as a baby, she’d smiled at everyone and won all hearts with her winsome ways.

Now she was five years old, and everyone loved Natasha, everyone except other children, that is. She didn’t have any friends of her own age. Did that explain her fascination with the fairies – her imaginary friends? She didn’t want baby dolls. They all had to be dainty and have wings so she could swoop around and pretend to fly with them. She was a dainty child herself, with dark fly-away hair and big, dark eyes.

“I wonder where she gets it from. Brian and I have mousy colouring and we’re certainly not dainty, more like clumpy, if you ask me.”

***

In the garden, Tasha smiled as she saw the two fairies hovering over the hedge at the far end.

They were beckoning to her and she ran lightly towards them. As she ran she felt a sprouting in her back, then a fluttering and her steps turned into jumps that lifted her higher and higher.

***

Polly screamed as looked through the window and saw Tasha’s feet just disappearing over the six foot hedge. Faintly she heard a tinkling laugh.

“Bye, Mam. I have to go home now.”

© Jean Knill

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Poetry

I believe: in the deep orange burn of sunsets turned silver to create celestial paths across black skinned seas.

I believe in the ripple of bluebells’ heads infusing the air with fragrant waves when released on a tickle-tease breeze in butterflies’ wings tattooed with rusty red as they spread their airborne sails, summer-warmed and anchor free.

I believe in yellow-copper treasure chests that overspill on transient skies and illuminate the autumn trees in the hush of snow-white flecks that drift to Earth’s shores and majesty a Christmas rose and woodland evergreens.

I believe in crystal blasts from winter’s breath, before the flourish of fevered growth when spring’s pulse begins to beat.

I believe in life before that of death.

I believe in nature’s spirit.

I believe.

Poem: I believe by Marilyn Sylvester© 2009 Accompanying photographs by Marilyn Sylvester© 2009 Marilyn Sylvester is now blogging at: http://www.writelink.co.uk/community/Marilyn

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Short Story

Ms Average Chick conscious F, 62, literate, affectionate, well travelled, moderate (size/looks/temperament), love humour, travel, discussions & life, longs for caring companion. Ldn/Mids.

‘Hmm,’ Henry wondered what a ‘Chick conscious F’ was - did she perhaps mean Chic? Because that would be entirely preferable to a woman of her vintage referring to herself as a chick – wouldn’t it?

Although he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted or needed himself these days. Madeleine was chic, never a hair out of place in all the time he knew her, always impeccably dressed, right up until her last breath of air made its solemn journey though her cherry stained lips.

This was going to more complicated than he had first thought, and what on earth did she mean by Chick conscious? It seemed a pretty safe bet that the F meant female, but what was she saying - that she was conscious of being a chick, or of being female? Perhaps she meant as opposed to being unconscious - which of course is always a plus point on a blind date.

Literate? Not illiterate, okay I suppose that’s a plus, not sure why it’s necessary to put it in here though. Affectionate, Henry glanced down at the chocolate brown Lab at his feet; he sat up on cue and nuzzled his head into his lap. Henry stroked his head, ‘You’re a good lad Toby, but what man couldn’t use a little female affection?’ Toby sighed, and flopped back down.

‘She’s well travelled too lad, not like us eh? We’ve barely left the cul-de-sac, perhaps she can regale us with tales of what we’ve been missing. Hopefully she won’t be one of these who drone on at infinitum – I drop off when a Thompson advert strings it out too long.’ Toby eyes droop obligingly.

Moderate! Size, looks and temperament! Bloody hell, why can’t she just say it as it is; she’s average, average, average. Not sure I want a woman who considers herself to be almost entirely bloody average. He got up and walked over to the sideboard, he picked through the crowd of faces each frozen in their own time, selecting the one with the silver frame he ran a finger gently over her perfect porcelain features. ‘Now you my darling were far from average.’ Her stony silence filled the room, seeping mercilessly into his heart. He heaved out a sigh, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Madeleine but I can’t be alone anymore, I can’t take any more of the endless silence. Just Toby’s heavy breathing and my own snoring to keep me company at night. I need company, I need a companion. I need Ms Average.’

He stared into the mirror above the sideboard, there was an old man staring back at him. ‘Well I was never more than average myself, but you saw something special in me. Of course, if you’d stuck around, you’d have seen me blossom into this distinguished gentleman.’ He smoothed his greying hair and smiled. Truth was he could probably find himself a younger woman now, if he chose to. But he wasn’t interested in high maintenance pretty young things, he wanted to share his golden years with someone who would appreciate them as much as he would.

Love humour... more travel? ‘Well, I could certainly do with broadening my horizons after all these years. Discussions and life....and life. Yes, that’s what I need - a life. And after all this time I deserve one don’t I Madeleine?’ He carefully replaced the photograph amongst the crowd of memories. Ms Average Longs for a loving companion. Me too, Ms Average. © Kristina Meredith

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A Slice of Life

Art work on the Tube It was 8.30 am and the Central Line tube was busy, as usual. I boarded the train at Stratford into a space where two people had got off. In what I would have considered to be a pretty unlikely feat, another six people managed to squeeze in behind me pushing me towards an area of entertainment.

Those ahead of me were having difficulty standing and juggling their bags to fit into spaces underneath other passengers’ arms or between their legs. Occasionally it is possible to put bags between your own legs, but it is preferable to find some host legs to save snagging stockings or tights.

The latter option also forges a more close community spirit.

When the people around me had managed to wriggle to ensure some degree of comfort, I looked to my right. I noticed the woman sitting alongside of me had an array of brushes and pots on her lap, suggesting she might be an artist. I assumed she must have paid for more than one seat, as her elbows were enjoying serious space invasion of her fellow passengers either side. One, a woman, gave a few sideways glances, suggesting my assumption was incorrect, and that she had only paid for one seat.

The woman with the brushes and pots on her lap (who for ease, I will now call ‘the artist’), picked up a brush and I watched as she shaded strange hollows into her cheeks. It looked like the air had been sucked out of her face, rather like the space saving bags for travelling. Still, she seemed happy with the effect as she studied herself in her mirror. The artist then picked up a pencil, and began applying a line around her lips, achieving the ‘I’ve just been stung by a bee, look.’ To an untrained eye it may have been classed as a contortionist at work. I had no idea a mouth could be opened and twisted into so many shapes; or that eye lashes could blink so viciously onto a wand of a brush. Her eyelashes soon resembled the legs of a large spider, with arthritic knobbles where the mascara had blobbed.

I glanced away; I felt I’d been spotted in one of the artist’s rare moments of looking ahead of her to check which station the train had stopped at. When I felt it was safe, I turned to look again. Now the eyes had been outlined with dark lines, one more heavily than the other – probably a consequence of the bad overhead lighting and a moment of power loss as the tube entered Liverpool Street Station.

The artist checked the mirror many times, but seemed not to notice the unbalanced kohl lines. Other passengers, like me, were now mesmerised by her artistic skills. The man next to me smiled and then tutted in an exaggerated way, but continued to stare. The artist rechecked her mirror. The bee sting lips suddenly seemed not quite right to the artist, as she picked up her pencil again to add a little more liner.

Suddenly the train lurched and then stopped. The driver announced that passengers should try to avoid leaning on the doors. I glanced back at the artist; I smiled. The lip liner must have been applied at the moment the driver’s ‘dead man’s handle’ had taken over. A deep curly red line reached far beyond her lips. Various pots toppled from her lap to the floor. Her arms flailed in many directions trying to save their fall. I had to stifle a giggle into my clenched hand. She grabbed the pots and threw them into her oversized floppy handbag.

This is not the first artist of this type I have seen, but this one certainly gave an entertaining performance.

© June Gundlack 40

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Garden at Little Oak 6

My last garden epistle began with vegetables an ended with a pan of jam-cum-jelly on the hob. The vegetables are still doing well and much of the jam-cum has been eaten. The spinach is only producing the odd meal now but until the end of October it was plentiful. Carrots have been and are still good, and as I write my husband appeared with Brussels Sprouts for dinner. Immediately Liza was here asking to be given one. All our Pointers have been fond of sprouts and of the stumps and leaf mid ribs of cauliflower. We’ve been having caulis for a couple of months now but they will soon be just a memory. Little fellas with a white curd. Each one, enough for two and with very edible leaves around the curd.

We had a goodly crop of beetroot. Wonderful stuff. A few small fresh leaves enhance a salad and the roots are delicious with just about any dish. Back to the carrots. We read that cosmos planted with them would keep carrot fly away. Still not sure if it is true. We’ve had two fine crops but both have had one or two carrots inhabited by carrot fly larvae. Six feet tall cosmos looked pretty in the bed but probably reduced the size of the carrots. They were eventually blown over by the Autumn winds in October.

Many of the shrubs have continued to flower half-heartedly in the warm wet winter weather we’ve been having. The apples have even thrown out a few new, pale green leaves and a couple of blossoms.

The lawns have continued to grow too. Far too wet to mow but still growing and grass about two feet tall. The only one to remain short is the front one which is surrounded by trees. It has a thick underfelt of moss which will be dealt with as soon as the weather is a little dryer.

We still have pots of white marguerites outside the front door and several of the hardier fuchsias flowering in the borders. The winter pansies are doing well in the sheltered spots but those on the end of the perennial border have had a taste of the North wind and are looking a bit shot up.

I saw a barn owl last week. It’s funny how he shows up during the day, at this time of the year. Flying three to six feet above the ground he drifts round the meadow opposite the house. He is definitely hunting but not for a young family at this time of the year.

The weather has been so dismal here despite temperatures abnormally high for the time of year, for example… light rain and 11°C at 11pm on 8th December. November rain-fall was way over the top of the record book but it continues to get away. No floods yet, except a puddle or two by the gate and round the front porch. We had only had two frosts until Friday 11th December.

Applications of compost from kitchen and garden waste has improved the soil here out of all recognition though the rain may well have leached out all the nutrients by now, however the structure is really good.

The bird feeders are still giving us a lot of interest and this year we have regular visits from a nut hatch. They were around when we came here thirty years ago but we hadn’t seen them for a number of years. We also have one small coal tit visiting. We call him Davey Crocket. The white head patch comes well forward and so far back that it is down onto his shoulders like a tail on a Davey Crocket hat. When he first arrived he was shy but now he fights his corner like a goodun’.

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We think the hedgehogs may have done a bunk, which is very disappointing. We thought they wouldn’t be able to get out of the garden but I read an article which proclaimed them ace climbers.

Last signs in about July/August time. Liza was the last to see one of them (we only know because of the noises coming from the lawn in the dark). No sightings since, though we did identify droppings at the end of August.

~0~

Now that Christmas is past and I have time to reflect it seems hardly to have stopped raining for more than a few hours since I was last writing this report. Nevertheless I cannot claim we have had only two frosts. We have had several really white ones with icy roads and icy steps in the garden. The snow has stayed away for the most part, just a flurry or two and once again we have found ourselves being thankful for a life on the South coast.

To prolong this piece of writing would be difficult since very little is happening in our very wet garden. We still have puddles round the front door and by the gate, so things haven’t progressed much. Walks at Christmas weren’t on, except for a short circuit of the block. The weather was ghastly except on Christmas Day itself when the sun shone in a blue sky, but even then it was too wet underfoot to go far a-field.

I will leave you with some photographs of our avian visitors and wish everyone an extremely happy New Year. The would seem to be very little chance of optimism in the garden currently but bulbs are showing through in large numbers and it is my guess Spring this year will be earlier than ever.

…and © Rosa Johnson

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On Writing

Like the Titanic without the Screams.

Don’t you just hate those awkward silences that often crop up when you’re sitting with a room full of strangers who are supposed to be getting to know each other? When the only sound reverberating through the deathly hush is the magnified creak of chairs under bums, putting you in mind of what it must have sounded like when the Titanic hit the iceberg - but without the screams.

Women are luckier than men in these situations. They can open their handbag and peer inside as if they’ve suddenly found something really interesting like the crown jewels.

Getting a hankie out can be worthwhile and use up loads of time, but you must remember never to blow your nose, because that would really get their attention and you’re sure to end up leaving a lump of something nasty where everyone but you can see it.

After a while your eye starts to twitch suggestively, and your lips go stiff no matter how many times you lick them because you’re convinced you’ve left a drying layer of toothpaste around your mouth. Although you know the twitching and nervous licking is drawing attention to yourself, the more you try to stop the worse it gets and then, somehow, because your mind is in panicked turmoil, you blurt out the first thing that comes into your head.

Something like, ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all week,’ but because of your stiff lips and twitches it comes out all garbled, which is when everyone edges their chairs away and decides you really are mad.

But now it’s worse. I’ve suddenly discovered I’m the same with empty spaces.

It all began yesterday when I logged in to a writing site I belong to. We can post stories, articles, poems, and book chapters and get feedback from fellow members, but this time the articles section only had one piece of work on display. The page looked empty and forlorn and to my horror I felt my lips begin to stiffen up. Quickly, before my eye could join in, I checked my files but I didn’t have anything suitable to post.

It was annoying, but I’m not very quick at coming up with interesting ideas to write about, so, with that comforting thought I turned the computer off and went to bed.

I’d love to say that during the course of the night I dreamed up a thought provoking, subject to write about. But I didn’t. Instead I dreamed I was part of a writers’ circle and everyone had to have a beauty treatment before submitting their work for a competition. Interestingly I was bald at the front of my head, had curly red ringlets dangling seductively around my ears, and a sleek sheet of blonde hair falling to my hips at the back.

There they all were, at least twenty - yes I counted - happy writers emerging from the posh chrome and glass salon looking sleek and happy. Then the organiser came over to me with a clipboard in her hand. She was very kind, but said although my work wasn’t bad I was so ugly it wasn’t worth the effort.

So here I am facing a blank screen with nothing to write about. Isn’t it always the way?

© Diane Rayburn

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The Pages

Poetry We Grow And Divide

I drift to Earth my journey done, The beings chosen, I wait for the feelings, they’ve begun, I grow and divide and grow again, Aware of the motion, an inner Heaven.

Something beats deep inside, The motion continues I grow and divide, Feeling warm fed by her blood, all that I need is given, As I take shape like a raging flood.

I’m hearing soft words of love; it feels good, And I’m safe here growing into me, This star child locked in a physical thing, But always free.

I am touching and she is next to me, Another star child we two are one, But I did not feel her spirit come, We grow and divide.

What native tongue will we be given?

To kiss their hearts but will they listen, The voice of love turns to a scream, It’s almost time.

Then all is quiet, more voices come, I’m lifted and my suit of flesh is bathed in sun, But where is my twin, I did not feel her spirit come.

© J.M.Artes

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Press Release/Review

Ellipsis by Nikki Dudley Ellipsis is Nikki’s first novel. Nikki also writes poetry which has been published in several magazines including streetcake, the online magazine, of which she is joint editor. She lives in London where she works in publishing as a Production Manager.

Excerpt: "Right on time," Daniel Mansen mouths to Alice as she pushes him to his death. Haunted by these words, Alice becomes obsessed with discovering how a man she didn't know could predict her actions. On the day of the funeral, Daniel's cousin, Thom, finds a piece of paper in Daniel's room detailing the exact time and place of his death.

As Thom and Alice both search for answers, they become knotted together in a story of obsession, hidden truths and the gaps in everyday life that can destroy or save a person.

Ellipsis is a disturbing thriller stemming from what is left unsaid, what bounces around in the mind and evaporates when trying to remember. Can there be a conclusion when no-one seems to know the truth?

What some early readers have said about Ellipsis: 'Exciting, psychologically complex, and disconcerting, it is a powerful tale of two misfits trying to uncover long hidden secrets about themselves and their pasts. Dudley has an often startling eye for description and her simple poetic prose will delight readers looking for something slightly different in the crime thriller genre.' Sam Ruddock, Writers' Centre, Norwich.

'Tight, evocative gut-punches tempered by the desperate details of everyday life.'

Shawn Kupfer, author of White Male, 34 Sparkling Books Ltd., 59 The Avenue, Southampton SO17 1XS, UK Tel. +44 (0) 20 3291 2471 admin@sparklingbooks.com - www.sparklingbooks.biz ‘Ellipsis’ by Nikki Dudley will be published on 10 May 2010. See Book Shelf

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The Pages

Pick of Competitions

Flash 500 Competition

Flash 500 Competition is a new quarterly, open-themed, flash fiction competition. Judged by Simon Whaley, it has a closing date of 31st March 2010. Entries of up to 500 words.

Entry fee: £5 for one story, £8 for two stories 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 The three winning entries will be published on the competition website -- for more details: Flash 500 Competition http://www.lorrainemace.com/index_files/flash500.html

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The Pages

Competitions cont.

NORFOLK POETS & WRITERS

THE MARGARET MUNRO GIBSON MEMORIAL POETRY COMPETITION 2010 (8th Davidian) Adjudicator: Alison Chisholm 1st prize £100, 2nd £25, 3rd £5 Plus five subscriptions to TIPS (to Dec 09)

FOR A COMIC VERSE POEM not exceeding 30 lines

DEADLINE:- 23rd April 2010 Entry fee £3 first entry (then £2 per poem) Unpublished poems only; max 30 lines; comic verse.

Entrants 18+, poems in English, open to UK residents and Tips subscribers.

What do I look for in a good comic poem? An original idea, expressed with panache and flawlessly executed. Rhyme and metre - if used - should be exact; free verse requires plenty of slant rhymes and careful lineation. Sentence structuring, syntax and punctuation should all be applied correctly. The poem should be thoroughly revised, should work equally well if read silently or aloud, and have enough of the feel good factor to make the reader laugh - or at least smile. Alison Chisholm ONE cover sheet only for personal details, list of titles + entry fee (pounds sterling) + A5 envelope (or address label) +2 UK postage stamps.

Email address for free eBook and full list available.

Entries with no entry fee, exceeding 30 lines, or name on poem will be disqualified.

Selected poems may be published in a competition anthology, available for purchase after the competition results; inclusion without payment is a condition of entry.

Only one poem typed per page. No personal identifiers on entry. No entry form.

Full list of free eBooks, free eTIPS (monthly) and new verse forms on request.

W Webb (MMG10) 9 Walnut Close, NORWICH NR8 6YN. Cheques: WENDY WEBB BOOKS NORFOLK POETS & WRITERS WENDY WEBB BOOKS ENQS: tips4writers@yahoo.co.uk Blogging at http://norfolkpoets.blogspot.com http://coastingnorfolk.blogspot.com Margaret loved poetry, quality, form and beauty.

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ALSO:

Winner of the 2nd & 4th pamphlet comps, now adjudicator of next comp:Norfolk Poets and Writers TIPS PAMPHLET COMP OPEN THEME Adj: James Knox Whittet, max 20 lines Deadline: 30 June 2010 Entry fee: £10 for 12 poems, posted together OR: £5 for 5 poems, posted together; £3 for 1 poem 1st Prize: Triptych Pamphlet publication: 3 In 1 (up to 3 poets feature in one collection); ONE free pamphlet to ALL competitors. X10 free copies to each winner.

RULES (to avoid disqualification): 1) Entry fee + SAEs (A5, size of Tips) or 2 stamps. UK only.

2) Your entry denotes acceptance of publication without payment, in Tips or a competition anthology.

3) Please use clear typefaces, no personal details on entry.

4) There are no form rules for this competition. No poem should be longer than 20 lines.

5) Adjudicator will select all winners and all poems suitable for publication. Final publication mix is editor’s decision.

6) Best poems will produce up to 3 winners in a triptych pamphlet (up to 10 poems each) and winners will receive 10 free copies each. Other competitors receive one free pamphlet.

Pamphlet: Minimum print run 50, publisher sales fund Tips.

Wendy Webb Books (TIPS/P/0610), 9 Walnut Close, Norwich, NR8 6YN. WENDY WEBB BOOKS.

Cheques:

tips4writers@yahoo.co.uk ___ Free sample Tips? ___ Free poetry book?

Your email:____________________________________ Address with entries please, entries & payment by post only.

FREE eBooks (internet):___ Yes ___ No (themes & poetry forms) __ Free subscription to eTIPS (by email).

PREVIOUS PAMPHLET WINNERS: __ A PEEDIE POTPOURRI, Norman Bissett, £2.50 __ FIRES OF MEMORY, James Knox Whittet, £2.50

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DWBP

The Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist Testing the Waters It seems like forever since Anna started writing my story, and it should have been completed a long time ago. We do agree on that score, believe it or not. But it wasn’t just my story.

I was part of something that had to happen, but don’t ask me how. I‘m not altogether clear on that one myself, but the truth is that the character that I’m based on did once exist. I think.

Not a decade or two, but lifetimes have passed since my demise - yet here I am, waiting to tell the tale. Had it been told back then, it would never have served its purpose, and nor would I. Funny the way things work out.

For a long time I was a mere Would-Be-Protagonist as far as anyone knew or could tell.

The hero of a story not yet written, or written in part. Quite a chunk of it was, actually. But I’m no hero. I fought against my fate, even though I knew the end result would be for the greater good. At least that’s what I was led to believe.

I felt sure that someone would tell my story sooner or later, but I did not expect to be the one to have to speak. I thought my story would be narrated, as though in the distant past. But apparently that’s not possible. I had no name at the outset. I was neither a ‘he’ nor a ‘she’, but being a ‘human-in-waiting’, I couldn’t possibly be called an ‘it’, either. I was no ‘thing’ - I was just me. As much as I didn’t like this nameless state of affairs, I was stuck with it, until my creator decided otherwise. That’s not the Creator-Author of all life - just the author of mine: an unknown writer hiding behind any number of aliases.

Naming a soul is serious business, like naming angels. Or a close second, at the very least.

Could you imagine the Archangel Gabriel being called by any other name? You see my point?

So, how did the story start? What made Anna want to pen something that was really beyond her understanding? What does humankind know about life before life - or if there was no life, about whatever it was that came before?

I sowed the seed in Anna’s mind, knowing that she would be compelled to start writing straight away. It might have been more sensible to choose someone else, someone who would keep writing to the end, but I had no choice in the matter. The decision was made before I even came into being. Sometimes I wish that I had been given the opportunity to make these decisions myself – but that’s another impossibility – apparently.

Anna figured that she’d start with the assumption that there was nothing - a big fat zero.

But that reminded her of the circle of infinity - or should that be a spiral, perhaps, as the universe seems to be continually growing, and expanding outwards? I’m just wondering…

Either way, it would have an enclosed centre encompassing a host of possibilities of what might or might not be - and plenty of scope for the imagination. She could take the story anywhere - as she thought – but I am glad that she decided to go on a journey with me. © Anna Reiers

To be cont… * 49