The Pages by Kristina Meredith

The Pages

Issue 1

The Pages

Contents

Submissions 5 Guidelines

Articles 6 A Uruguayan Initiation 12 A Lethal Greed 18 The Writing Life 21 In My Opinion…

Fiction 9 Short Story – Please don’t tell 22 Flash Fiction – Empty

Poetry 8 Chance 16 Hairbrush 17 Silent Nights

Competitions 24 Short story & Poetry

And… 23 Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist

And Finally… 25 …this!

The Pages

Contributors Marit (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales,UK in 1972. Married, with 6 daughters and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front - but makes time for writing. She’s had comments, articles, poems, true-life stories and short stories published, as well as having work in anthologies published in aid of charities. Marit has just completed her first novel, and is still stunned by the fact that she managed to do so - after several attempts where she ‘dried up’ two thirds of the way in. Visit her website and check out The Challenge. www.freewebs.com/annareiers/ Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian mother and Welsh father. A brief interlude to London to study fashion, didn’t quell the cravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or fjords - it just added to her identity crisis. Now a mother to a bouncing 10 month old boy, life keeps her very busy. Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write. The Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with like-minded souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition

Emma Meredith (Marit’s daughter), our photographer for the photo story and poetry competition, has had her work published in a couple of anthologies. She has an eye for detail and often captures what the eye might miss. As a soon-to-be new mum she’s going to have her hands full for the foreseeable future, but hopes to pursue a career in photography later.

Stef Hall is a country girl at heart. Born and raised in Norwich, England, she now resides in London with her musician partner, Paul, and their three bonkers cats. She tries to make up for the bustle of city life by procrastinating, walking slowly, and drinking far too much tea. Although she has been writing since she could hold a pen, 2007 marked Stef’s first ventures into publication, with pieces appearing in magazines such as Twisted Tongue and La-Fenetre, as well as The Weekly News and a few anthologies. Stef says the universal truth is that one can never have too many cats. Albert Oxford was born in the UK at Epsom, Surrey and still resides there. His work focuses primarily on the emotions generated by human relationships, but frequently includes references to the chalk hills and beech woods of the locality in which he grew up and which has given him his enduring love of the natural world.

alex.oxford@ntlworld.com

David Robinson has been a writer since his teens, and semi-professional since the mid-eighties. He is extensively published both in his local newspaper and across the web and small press magazines. He turned out over 80 pieces for Kwickee, the mobile phone information service. He published his first two novels in 2002, and his third novel, The Haunting of Melmerby Manor was published in 2008 by Virtual Tales (USA). Usually writing either humour or supernatural fact/fiction, he is currently engaged on several projects including the sequel to The Haunting of Melmerby Manor. He is 58 and lives with his wife and crazy West Highland White call Max, on the edge of the moors northeast of Manchester.

Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. Having lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, she speaks five and half languages, describing herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’ She explains her itinerant life by saying: ‘Some lead; others follow.’ She recently took up writing, and her articles have featured in diverse publications. Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, making each new destination a real home. She lived in Montevideo between 2004 and 2008, but is in the process of relocating to Belgium.

http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/

Italian born Eva Ulian, grew up in Britain. She is a teacher, translator, painter, poet and freelance writer. She was also publication officer in the administrative services of the SETAF US Army based in Vicenza. Eva writes articles on cultural differences, which have been published in the small press, and her poems have been broadcast on the BBC National Radio. In Italy she has been broadcast on local radio and has appeared on national TV. Her controversial and historical articles have been widely published on the net and can be found on her Blog “The Best of the Worst” http://sunflower-dailyservice.blogspot.com/ . She is presently compiling a catalogue of her paintings, along with descriptions, which on good days, she says, turn out to be poetic. http://evaulian-paintings.blogspot.com/

Linda Daunter is a freelance writer and photographer who has had short stories and articles published in national and local magazines. She is currently working on two novels and has been known to break into verse on occasion - although she can’t honestly call herself a poet. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/linda

Caroline M.Davies writes poems whenever she can spare the time from work and looking after her children. Her poems and prose have appeared in a variety of print and on-line magazines including Blue Tattoo, Earlyworks Press, Flashquake, Poetry Monthly and Seventh Quarry. She has won several poetry competitions; the most recent being the Jacqui Bennett Writers Bureau winter 2007. Her poem Hairbrush was written in memory of her mother. It won the Blaenau Gwent Poetry Competition in 2007. Linda Mary Price is a minister in the Presbyterian Church in Wales and also a writer and composer. She has written and composed several pieces for choral work as well as children’s musicals, based on Biblical themes. Her work has been performed in many venues locally, and she has also ‘appeared’ on radio. She is passionate about animals’ rights and the need for us to take an active part in looking after God’s earth and everything in it.

Jean began her career as a freelance writer in the early 1980s. Her work has been published in many UK magazines and newspapers – including SHE, The Lady, My Weekly, Sports Industries, and Church Times – as well as in writing and travel e-zines. Now she showcases some of her work on constant-content.com and has made a number of sales there. Jean believes the writing life is very different now, with so many supportive on-line communities and websites like The Apprentice Writer – a far cry from the writer’s isolation only a couple of decades ago. Until recently, Jean’s writing has been slotted in beside teaching and marketing projects. Now she has retired from these sidelines and is rejoicing in the freedom to write as much as she wants.

www.jakill-jeansmusings.blogspot.com

The Pages

Editorial

One summer day, when my father was three years old, my grandparents rowed him out into the middle of a fjord and threw him in – and he swam; at least that’s what we were always told. I have no doubt that one of them, both good swimmers, went in with him, but the story goes to illustrate that it is sometimes better to jump in with both feet, rather than forever paddle in the shallows (but I’m not advocating throwing your children in!). So, after a considerable time of paddling, we decided to make the jump – from thinking about producing a magazine, to actually doing it – and The Pages became a reality. A big thank you to all our contributors who made the venture possible.

Marit and Stina

Submission Guidelines

In each issue we aim to publish two poems, two short stories, an essay or open article, an article on the Writing Life – from any angle – a travel article and a piece of Flash Fiction (up to 500 words). An opinion piece (or call it a ‘rant’) would be good, too – and we’d like to see book reviews and extracts. Humour is always welcome. If you have an idea for a series for future issues, we would welcome suggestions – and we would also like to see some illustrations. In short, we’ll consider all suggestions and contributions that come our way. We cannot offer payment as of yet, but aim to do so in the future, depending on incoming revenue.

The Pages

Mate Mates Paola’s Initiation, Uruguayan style.

‘Let’s sit on the zaguán,’ my friend Rosa says. The zaguán is the space between her front door and the street. We squeeze out two plastic folding chairs and a table. I’ve been invited to matear, Uruguayan style. Mate is a national social pastime here. The mate is a calabash: you fill it with a bitter dried leaf called yerba, add boiling water, and sip it through a bombilla – a silver straw. The whole set of mate, bombilla and yerba are also referred to as mate, and the verb, matear, means to sip it. There are rules: you carry your mate in your hand and flask under your arm, or put everything in a leather case called a matera, but you can’t order it in a bar. It’s something personal, which you pass around your friends. Groups of young people sit in parks, chatting, enjoying the sun and sipping away. In street markets, or even in business meetings, people clutch their calabashes. Kiosks sell hot water to refill flasks. During summer months, when hoards of Uruguayans hit the beaches, first aid centres are set up to deal with burns. ‘Okay, Rosa, I want to get this right.’ Rosa pours cold water onto one side of the leaves, digs a hollow with her straw, and starts sipping. ‘The leaves have to hinchar, to swell. You use cold water at first; otherwise the straw clogs up. I’m inviting, so I sip till the temperature is right. It’s rude if I give it to you luke-warm.’ She sucks, and when a gurgle indicates she has drained her brew, she fills it with boiling water, slurps again, checking the temperature, refills, and hands it to me. I sip. We chat. I learn that is impolite to hand the mate back before the last drop of water is finished. You need that slurpy noise. ‘Yuk! You don’t want to sip someone else’s water!’ Rosa says. I wonder about the hygiene of the operation. ‘Most people share with anyone. But I’m selective.’ I’m honoured. ‘I’m the hostess, so I fill. And we chusmear. We gossip about passers- by.’ ‘Rosa, if gossiping is part of matear, I’ll go for it.’ ‘Ooh, see that woman? She’s asquerosa.’ I wonder why she’s nauseating. ‘She moved into the area and rebuilt the house next door. Loads of money. Moans all the time: says my pipes are wrong, my bathroom is making damp seep into hers…’ A man walks by. I nod and say ‘Buenas tardes.’ ‘No, don’t greet, just smile. Don’t say anything unless you know the person.’

‘But I don’t know anyone.’ ‘Okay, don’t say anything unless I know them. You have to differentiate between those you know and those you don’t. An elderly man passes with a dog. ‘Not all there.’ We pass the mate back and forth. Every few fills, Rosa shifts the straw around the wet leaves. ‘How’s Alicia?’ Rosa asks. She met Alicia at my house recently. ‘Ah, poor Alicia, she’s the first of twelve siblings. When she was fifteen, and her youngest brothers, twins, were a few months old, her mother gave one of them away – can you imagine? She handed him over to a stranger, then left. With another man. Alicia didn’t see her again till last week, at a funeral. But Alicia’s kids refuse to call her grandma. Can you blame them?’ Is this me, talking about other people’s affairs, and judging? Rosa pours the last drops from the flask, and sips the mate del estribo. The dregs. ‘Great, Paola. You’ve managed to matear and chusmear, simultaneously. You’re a real Uruguayan now.’

First published in ‘The Oldie’ expat column January 2008 Paola Fornari ©

The Pages

Poetry

Chance We saw them watching us and smiling too Because of the shared delights we all four knew; Because of the way their eyes vowed love was true Which mirrored that same joy in me and you. It seemed, you said, that it was destined from the start, How a pulse would race for the beat of another’s heart. Our midwinter breath formed clouds of laughter in the air: I’m sure you recall, for we were together then, in love, and there. At the road’s edge they paused as we drew near, Her eyes, still fixed on his, were bright and clear. We later said, though we could say no more, How close we were, what happened, what we heard and saw. The sun-glint on the icy road, that’s sure; her laugh, The car that skidded sideways on the path. Four seconds maybe, though each one seemed long, A hand’s-grip lost, a cry and she was gone. Do you recall her last-breath’s vapour hanging in the air, Close to the ground, thinning, unaware As though it held some pale regret, some morsel of despair? Yes, of course you do for we were together then, in love, and there. His face was blank with disbelief and woe, He stared at his empty hand that felt her go. Perhaps the driver’s eyes met hers, just for a fleeting moment at the end, But chance has neither enemy nor friend. So carelessly, impartially and brief, It dealt a random card whose name was grief. And how you clung to me and how you wept. Do you recall how you could not accept A life erased; such cruel finality That could have just as well been you or me. Even now, though our paths are far apart I’m sure that fear still lingers in your heart And sometimes, when your breath forms clouds in air I know you recall, for we were together then, in love, and there. © Albert Oxford

The Pages

Short Story PLEASE DON’T TELL

First published in Best magazine January 1990. First British Serial Rights sold.

“Yoo-hoo! It’s only me!” I winced at Elsie’s strident voice and sat quite still. Elsie was my next-door neighbour. She reminded me of an inquisitive little terrier the way she trotted about sniffing, looking, listening; determined not to miss a single hint of gossip. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone at home?” She was trying to peer through the frosted glass of the back door. Reluctantly, I opened it. “Sorry to bother you so early, only I wondered if I could borrow…?” Elsie stopped and stared. “Whatever’s the matter, dear? You look dreadful!” I muttered something about not having had much sleep last night. Elsie came into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation. “Of course! Your John was due home last night, wasn’t he?” She gave me a knowing wink. “You must miss him when he’s away. I wouldn’t want my Ken to work abroad. No knowing what he’d get up to amongst all those foreigners! So, did John get back late last night?” “About nine,” I said. “I expect you heard us.”

“Heard you, dear?” Elsie must have heard the fight. She would have had her ear pressed to the wall straining to catch every word. Why else was she here at this time of the morning? I almost smiled, imagining her frustration when that last burst of threats and accusations ended so abruptly. What had she made of the long, long silence that followed? Elsie glanced up at the ceiling. “Your John having a lie-in, is he? I expect he’s tired after all that travelling.” “No. He’s gone,” I said, and even as the words slipped out I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Elsie pounced. “Gone? Already? Where to?”

The next thing I knew, I was slumped in a chair sobbing uncontrollably. As if in a dream, I heard myself saying, “I killed him. I murdered John.” Elsie’s face showed disbelief, horror, curiosity and, finally, excitement. “You murdered him?” I nodded. “It was an accident. I only picked up the knife to try and make him leave me alone.” Elsie looked around. “So what have you…? Where’s the…? Body?” I gestured towards the window. “In the garden. Under the apple tree.” Elsie rushed to look out. “Really? I can’t see anything.” A note of suspicion had crept into her voice. I managed a wry smile. “I was very careful. I replaced all the turf afterwards and put the spare soil on the flower borders. It took me all night to do it.” “But you’ll have to tell the police,” Elsie said. “I’ll come with you, shall I? For a bit of moral support? They’ll understand if you explain it was self-defence. I’ll back you up. Did you hear about that woman in Birmingham who poisoned her husband? It was in all the papers. She was let off scot-free. The judge said she’d been driven to it.” I shuddered, recalling the lurid headlines. “Oh, Elsie! I’d rather die than let everybody know the things I’ve endured these last few years.” Elsie’s eyes widened. “What kind of things?” I kept quiet, leaving Elsie’s imagination to answer her own question. “But it’ll look better if you tell the police straight away,” she persisted. “They’re bound to find out sooner or later.” “How?” I asked. “Who’s going to miss John? He had no family or close friends. If anyone asks I’ll say he’s abroad. The only people who know he’s missing are me – and you. And you aren’t going to say anything, are you Elsie?” I was taking a huge gamble. Was it possible for a compulsive gossip to keep such a secret, even if she wanted to? Elsie hesitated, and then smiled. “Don’t worry, dear. You can rely on me.” Over the next few months, I began to build a new life for myself. Apart from having to be nice to Elsie, everything was working out perfectly. And it might have continued that way if it hadn’t been for Elsie’s husband, Ken. Looking back, I can’t believe how naïve I was, but I honestly thought he was just being

neighbourly when he occasionally pulled up at the bus-stop to offer me a lift to work, gave me a few plants for the garden, or stopped to chat if we happened to meet in the street. One day, I was struggling to cut my side of the hedge between our gardens with a pair of rusty shears when Ken appeared flourishing his electric clippers. He offered to give me a hand and made such a good job of the hedge that it seemed rude not to invite him in for a cup of tea afterwards. As far as I was concerned, it was all perfectly innocent. But Elsie didn’t see it that way. “Caught you red-handed!” she screeched, as she burst in. “I knew something was going on between you two!” I tried to explain, but Elsie wasn’t in a listening mood. She turned on me. “How could you? After all I’ve done for you! You got rid of one husband, and now you’re trying to take mine! Well, I know how to put a stop to your little game!” From my kitchen window, I watched the police officers digging methodically beneath the apple tree. “They won’t damage the tree, will they?” I asked the detective standing beside me. “They’re only doing their job,” he replied. I told him I quite understood. They had to investigate an anonymous call claiming someone had been murdered – no matter how improbable it was. “It’s all my own fault,” I confessed. “It was my neighbour who called you. You see, I foolishly told her I’d killed my husband.” “And had you?” “Of course not!” I laughed. “I’ve already explained what happened. John left me. His work took him all over Europe. He was often away for weeks on end and, when he was here – well, the marriage was over. I knew there were other women. The last time he came home, he said he was in love with someone else and was leaving me, his job, everything, to go and live with her. We had a blazing row and he stormed out. I haven’t seen or heard anything from him since then.” “So why tell your neighbour he was dead?” the detective asked. I pointed out of the window. “That’s why.” Elsie was in her garden, pretending to hang out some washing while standing on tiptoe, trying to see what was happening on my side of the hedge. I described her visit on the morning after John left.

“I was exhausted and not thinking straight,” I said. “I knew that if Elsie discovered the truth she would spread it all over town. I couldn’t cope with the prospect of everyone knowing – talking behind my back – feeling sorry for me. So I made up this story. It sounds crazy, but I thought the only way to keep her quiet was by letting her think I was a murderer. After all, it’s one thing gossiping about a broken marriage, but something else altogether to go around telling people that you’re shielding a killer.” The detective smiled. I guessed he met a lot of people like Elsie in his line of work. He asked some more questions and then went out to the men in the garden. I saw them shaking their heads. When the police had gone, I inspected the damage to the lawn around the apple tree. It looked a mess, but time and a packet of grass seed would put it right. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elsie at her observation post. I gave her my brightest, friendliest smile. “Hello, Elsie. Lovely day, isn’t it?” She frowned, managed to force a tentative smile, then scuttled indoors. In a few days’ time I’d invite her round for coffee to show I had no hard feelings towards her. After all, things could have turned out a lot worse. The police could have decided to dig up the vegetable plot.

The Pages

Article A Lethal Greed

Hard-hitting facts about the effects of our eating habits on global warming. It’s fashionable to associate our desire to do our bit for the planet by using the phrase, ‘Cut the Carbon’. However, we are missing the whole point, somewhat. In a fascinating lecture on Global Warming at the General Assembly (of The Presbytrian Church In Wales), Dr. Hefin Jones began with the fact that although carbon does contribute to global warming, methane is much more dangerous. Somehow, ‘muffle the methane’ doesn’t sound quite so cool, and I don’t think that particular phrase will catch on! Yet if a similar one doesn’t, we ignore a disastrous but well-known threat. Methane is the most important non - CO2 greenhouse gas. It is 21 times more powerful than CO2, and is responsible for almost as much global warming as all other non - CO2 greenhouse gases combined. After the lecture, I asked Dr. Jones for his thoughts on the environmental catastrophe that is not just looming, but already with us - due to the rearing of animals for food. Dr. Hefin remarked upon the ‘immorality’ of the West’s mass-production of food animals, and its disastrous knock-on effects upon the whole planet and its people.

An advert circulated by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) says: ‘Think you can be a meat eating environmentalist? Think again! If you care about the planet, go vegan.’ This is illustrated with a striking global picture, with the continents shaped in meat. The top left of the globe is missing; a human bite has left its unmistakable teeth marks. The picture makes you shudder, but let’s allow the facts to take over. Earth’s energy: Rearing animals for food in the United Kingdom uses nearly 1/3 of all our fossil fuels. The same amount of fossil fuel used to produce one hamburger would drive a small car twenty miles, or provide water for seventeen showers. Earth’s water: Rearing animals for food uses more than half the water used worldwide. It takes 2,500 gallons of water to produce every pound of meat, but just 25 gallons to produce a pound of wheat. On a personal level, one vegetarian uses 300 gallons of water a day, while one meateater uses 4,000. Earth’s land: Of all the agricultural land in the United Kingdom, over 80 % is used to rear food animals. 20% more land is required to feed a meat eater than a vegetarian, but we still need more food, so we import it from developing countries that often cannot feed themselves. This is obscene waste! On ten hectares we can produce meat for only two - but maize for ten, grain for twenty-four or soya for 61. The icing on this doomsday cake is that the overgrazing of food animals has resulted in vast areas of global desertification. Earth’s deforestation: 125,000 square miles of rainforest per year are destroyed to create space for food animals. For every ‘quarterpounder’, 55 square feet of rain forest must be razed. Since 1950, half the world’s rain forests have been flattened to accommodate grazing livestock. In just six or seven years of grazing the soil is so damaged it turns to dust, and can no longer support

grass. Tribal people are forced to move as their habitat is taken for meat production. And this is

not happening to some other civilization ‘over there’: A shocking 98% of forests of Britain have been razed for the same purpose. Earth’s pollution: Pollution is generated by natural processes; for example in marsh areas everywhere. No part of the globe escapes blame. Rice cultivation is another major source of methane, with 90% of the world’s paddy fields concentrated in Asia. Pollution also comes from fossil fuel consumption, mining and landfill sites, etc. But 15% of animal agricultural methane emissions pour into the atmosphere from massive lagoons of untreated farm animal waste. Animals reared for food produce 80 million tons of excrement per year, which is teeming with parasites, pesticides and antibiotics. It fouls the air, pollutes our water and erodes our topsoil. This is the bulls-eye target for environmentalists. It is the number one source of water pollution in the United States. In some parts of Europe slurry is the single greatest cause of acid rain; and the methane produced by the world’s cows is a major contributor to global warming. PETA states, “Eating meat leaves behind an environmental toll that generations to come will be forced to deal with.” Earth’s food: The world’s cattle alone eat food equal to the needs of 8.7 billion people - more than the world’s entire population. 40 million tons of food would eliminate extreme hunger, yet a massive 540 million tons are fed to farmed animals in the West. Cattle are the United Kingdom’s biggest source of methane. One windy cow can produce 500 litres of methane per day, and we have two million of them. U.K. scientists are working flat out to ‘muffle the methane‘. Nutritional expert Professor David Beever believes that the unnatural food we give to cattle for ever quicker growth is not chewy enough. They cannot break it down sufficiently in their mouths before it reaches the rumen. So because cows no longer ruminate as they should they produce excess methane. Part of his solution is to make the cattle feed chewier, saying that this would be like ‘adjusting the carburettor’. This could change 35 litres of methane per litre of milk to as low a reading as 20 litres of methane per litre. Worldwide, livestock emissions reach approximately 94 Tetragrams. (Tg) = 1 million tons. Brazil is home to the second largest national cattle herd in the world - over 160 million headequivalent to the country’s human population. (The first is India.) Cows are one of the top greenhouse gas producers, and 29 % of the total volume of methane emitted comes from cattle. Brazil could reduce its contribution to global warming by making improvements in their cattle industry. Productivity is low, and the country doesn’t need so many cows to maintain its current level of food production. For its milk yield, it is estimated that 1/5 of the total herd would be enough. This would be possible if Brazil could reach the productivity level of Australia and New Zealand, says Paulo Machado, Professor at the University of Sao Paulo’s School of Agronomy. With breeds of cows like those bred in the United States, which produce 7 tons of milk per cow per year, Brazil’s dairy herd could be cut to 1/10 its current size. Though the trend is to cut down the national herd, it will be a slow process, because milk consumption is going up, and in the near future expected to double. The government has designated the National Quality Programme to monitor this situation. Professor Machado stresses, however, that although he acknowledges the role of livestock in the greenhouse effect, these animals play a positive part by transforming grasses and other plants that are no use to humans, into nourishing meat and milk, and into raw materials like leather. However, generating gases that contribute to global warming is not the whole of the problem. Particularly in Brazil, farm animals are associated with the top environmental nightmare - the

burning of forests and the concentration of land into the hands of a few. This has proven to be a source of serious unrest and social conflict. In many cases, people have burned forests to create pasture, and abandoned thousands of head

of cattle on it, assuring ownership of large tracts of land by occupation. The production of meat and milk is not the central goal. This is the most worrying phenomenon to environmentalist

Rubens Born, head of the non-governmental movement Vitae Civilis. Cattle-ranching is behind the burning of the Amazonian rainforests, and the fires themselves are the biggest source of greenhouse gas emissions in Brazil, in this instance CO2. Worldwide, atmospheric concentrations of CO2 have risen by 31% since pre-industrial days, but methane concentrations have more than doubled.

Our conclusion is plain to see. We can reduce global warming in our lifetime if we really want to simply by eliminating - or at least reducing - our greedy consumption of animal products. By changing to a vegetarian, or even better, a vegan diet, we can eliminate a major source of methane, the greenhouse gas responsible for almost half the global warming threat to our planet today. But have we the will to do that? Can we accept some of the responsibility for these shameful facts? Do we accept the seriousness of he scenario laid out before us? We pat ourselves on the back for sharing cars, turning the heating down a notch, and most of us use energy saving light bulbs. We recycle a large part of our rubbish nowadays, yet we find it almost impossible to sacrifice our gluttonous addiction to meat. ‘Turning veggie’ raises a giggle, yet we do have a choice. I am certain that our descendants will not. Yet ‘going veggie’ has huge advantages over CO2 reduction.

1. Shifting from methane emitting food is easier than cutting CO2, and a 100% reduction of greenhouse gas can be achieved with little impact. In contrast, cuts in CO2 can devastate the economy: the most ambitious plans fall short of cutting by half. 2. Shifts in diet lower greenhouse gas emissions much quicker than shifts away from fossil fuel burning techniques that emit CO2. The turnover for most ruminant farm animals is two years. The decreases in animals reared for food would result in an almost immediate drop in methane emissions; whereas the turnover for cars and power plants can be decades. Even if cheap, zero emission fuel sources were available, they would take decades to replace our massive infrastructure that western economy depends upon. 3. Methane cycles out of the atmosphere in just 8 years, its reduction would quickly cool the planet. CO2 remains in the air for over a century. PETA calls for food and environmental organizations to consider advocating vegetarianism as a major part of global warming campaigns. It is action everyone can take to contribute to the Cause. They say that government policy should encourage vegetarianism, with an emphasis on vegetarian foods in schools. They suggest the possibilities of an environmental tax on meat, similar to the tax on fuel, and shifting farm subsidies to encourage plant rather than animal agriculture. ‘The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it’, we say. If we really believe that, we must acknowledge that we have plundered it for far too long, and we plunder still. Now, too many facts scream at us that our time is up. © Linda Mary Price

The Pages

Hairbrush © Caroline M. Davies

Hairbrush was written in memory of Caroline’s mother. It won the Blaenau Gwent Poetry Competition in 2007.

Sealed in a plastic bag, labelled ‘Fresh from Sainsbury’s’, where I’ve not shopped since the accident. The hairbrush was on my mother’s dressing table when she was killed. The bag was to keep it safe the bristles threaded with grey hair, her last hair. I didn’t think to ask the undertaker to cut a lock as she lay on the slab. Preferred the hair loosened naturally by the brush’s stroking. After the lorry crushed the car, I clung to this memento a sacred relic, a reminder of the dead. But it never brought her back, I don’t remember her using it. I have a photograph taken a month before she died. She didn’t like the way it framed her face with its brown hair. I release the hairbrush from its plastic bag, gently untangle a single grey hair. The brush came from Hong Kong. A gift for Nain from her sea faring husband Did it sit on my mother’s dressing table as a reminder of her own mother? Have I kept this brush for fifteen years in memory of the wrong woman? I examine the grey hair It still has links to my DNA. My hairbrush is worn out, keeps losing bristles. This brush was expensive, Ornate with a pattern of entwined chinese dragons on the back. I feel the weight in my hand as slowly I start brushing.

The Pages

Poetry

Silent Nights A blanket of hushed tones descend on sleepless nights. Silence, a thousand blurry notes floating through relentless gloom. My eyes close to seek the stealthy silence finding only a steady rhythm in a deceptive darkness. The murmuring of energy as it passes through on a journey, taking it criss-crossing continents, punctured lazily, by a distant thrusting engine as it picks up speed, mercifully, muffled by the cloak of darkness. I am barely awake now, but I squeeze my eyes tighter, searching for the stubborn silence. I find instead, a slow watery pulse; tiny sodden beads find their way through slimy, rusting pipes, only to drop suicidally upon pristine porcelain. I hear myself echo the sigh overhead, The low rush as moulded metal cuts through consuming clouds. I take a long, deep breath in, releasing it slowly. Finally I lie and listen to my own rhythms and gratefully allow the silence to consume me. © Kristina JJ Meredith

The Pages

The Writing Life… Publish And Be What?

I’m a writer. Reading this, it will come as no surprise to you that I make enough money as a writer to keep me in full time employment. I wrote my first novel when I was twelve. It was about 5,000 words long and a blatant rip off of every James Bond book I’d read at that age. Needless to say it never went any further than the notebook. Since then, I’ve struggled on gamely, churning out fact and fiction and I even sell some of it. Writers, I believe, also make the best readers. Not only do they appreciate the plot and characters, but also the construction of the book. On that basis, I am often to be found wandering around our bookshops, especially the cheap ones, the discount and secondhand shops. (Why so surprised? I’m a Yorkshireman too.) Last August, in town for one errand or another, I ambled into one such shop only to find that the books had been shifted in order to make space for the Christmas displays. The manageress insisted they had to be ready for the rush.

‘Yes. About four months early.’ I moved to the rear of the shop where all the books had been crammed into a few shelves, leaving titles such as Arthritis And Sex next to Servicing Your Mini leaving me with the mistaken belief that I was looking at an oversized book with a naked couple on one side and a red Mini on the other, bearing the title, Servicing Your Arthritis and Mini Sex. My mind boggling at the possible implications of such a book, I scanned the shelves and found them packed with the usual dross remaindered by the publishers. An A-Z Of Gardens, Planning Your Family, Holidays On A Budget. Looking at some of them, I had to wonder how such things ever got into print. Your Electricity Meter And How It Works, A Catalogue Of Dog Leashes. What on earth went through the publisher’s mind when they commissioned these works?

I looked around. ‘There’s no one in but me.’

Then I saw the ultimate in titles. Roundabouts Of Great Britain. Someone has actually written a book on traffic islands. Worse, someone else has actually gone to the trouble of publishing it.

‘Well, it’s early yet.’

I asked the assistant about its popularity.

‘Well,’ she confessed, ‘it’s not a bestseller, but we have shifted a few copies.’ So people actually buy this stuff? I don’t blame the publisher. This is a tough world and you have to try to make a buck where you can. I don’t blame the writer. He obviously felt there was some merit in a book on roundabouts. I blame the buying public. Who in his right mind would want such a book? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is a whole army of anoraks out there drooling over our roundabouts. I’ll bet they’re the ones who started the anti-Spaghetti Junction campaign, and the thought of the Hemel Hempstead Gyratory probably brings them to orgasm.

Is it any wonder I can’t get my stuff into print? I can’t compete with titles like that … or perhaps I can. Maybe I’ve just been approaching the problem from the wrong angle. After all, if TV has dumbed down to the point of programmes like Big Brother where viewers sit for hours on end watching people sleep, why not dumb down our reading matter too? Instantly an array of titles springs to mind. Bus Stops I Have Known; Traffic Lights On The Change; Bollards: The Ultimate Guide, and the flagship title; The Big Book of British Bogs, the Lavatories of Our Land. Wandering further around the shop, while Prokofiev’s Troika played over and over again ad nauseum, I noticed that they carried few novels. Their titles were mainly factual, many of them How To… type volumes. How To Rebuild

Your Conservatory, How To Rewire Your House. I noticed that those two were right next to How To Administer First Aid. Once again it occurred to me that I’ve been approaching this writing business from the wrong end. I thought it was all about producing lively work on interesting topics, not half baked crap on subjects that are beyond the average DIY-er. It does, however, give me pause for thought, and right away several more titles occur to me. Garden Sheds That Work; Hand Rolling Cigarettes For Beginners; How To Read A Book. The last title would obviously be aimed at that section of our society deemed morons; i.e. a sizeable proportion of us. I can see the foreword now.

This is a book. It is composed of letters, strung into words, further strung into sentences and paragraphs. You’ll know when you come to the end of a word because there is a space there and, at the end of every sentence there is a little dot to tell you that you’ve got there. At the end of a paragraph the next words start on a new line. If you’re not sure what the letters are, there’s a list of them on page 1. This is called the alphabet. You read the book with your eyes, those orbs either side of your nose. Your nose is that lump in the middle of your face that stops your forehead collapsing over your mouth. © David Robinson

The Pages

True Story Window to Romance

First published in Chat May 2007. This is the unabridged version. Crash – a loud bang, breaking glass, childish screams. “Whatever’s the matter?” I was taking the stairs of our maisonette two at a time to reach the bedroom where my ten year old daughter, Emma, was playing with her two new friends. “S-s-sorry Mum.” “We didn’t mean to break it.” “It was the wind and we couldn’t hold it.” The picture window swung loose with its large pane of glass missing and just a few jagged shards of glass around the frame. Outside was our fourth floor balcony, littered with large and small pieces of the window pane. “Well, at least no-one’s hurt.” I decided that they were too shocked and scared to get angry with them. “We’ll just have to see what we can do about it.”

“Did the girls tell you about my broken window?” He started to look anxious so I went on quickly, “It’s all right. I just wondered if you could help me get it fixed. I don’t even have a car to go and buy the glass.” By the next day, Paul had fitted a new window pane. Then I thought I’d better invite them to Sunday lunch to say thank you. Next week he invited us back and it became a ritual to take turns to cook for each other on Sundays. We started to take the children out together, and when Paul cried with the rest of us at the end of ET, I knew he was the man for me. Now the children are grown with homes and families of their own. Paul and I have our own lovely house in the country and last year, after two decades together, we decided to get married. I often wonder what my life would have been like if that window had never been broken.

The caretaker of our London council block was sympathetic and told me he would clear up the glass on the balcony. “But” he said “The council will charge you about £70 to fit the new glass.” In 1980, that was more than I could afford. Since my husband had left me, I’d decided to go back to college and was living on a student’s grant, which didn’t allow for crises like this. Emma’s friends, Lisa and Maureen, lived with their divorced father on the ninth floor of our block. I decided to call on him and see if he could help. The door opened to my knock and I saw a tall man of about my age, with springy dark hair, twinkly eyes and a sensitive face.

The Pages

In My Opinion… When Hell’s Bells are Let Loose

Complaints to the district council's environmental health department (no less) on sound pollution caused by the three-hour peals once a month in summer - and in the afternoon at that - is a clear sign of neurosis, caused most likely by sexual frustration or a deep lack of satisfaction of some kind. But such complaints were filed against St Peter and Paul’s Church at Aldeburgh on the Suffolk coast. The woman who complained should try living in my part of the world…

had watches or clocks, the whole day was centred round the chiming of the church bells. Mass was always said at 6a.m. - every morning of the week – and at mid-day the inhabitants of the village would down tools at the sound of the bells ringing out the Angelus – and go home to lunch. My mother was fond of telling me that when I was born, the bells rang out, making me feel very important, until I found out that the bells were not ringing out for joy because of my birth, but tolling the death of my uncle. Because that's how births, deaths, marriages and other festivities, or dangers like storms, were communicated to the villagers. It’s still the same today. But the clergy are not unfeeling people. They realise that as a bunch of lazy, good for nothing, layabouts, the last thing we want to hear after a Saturday night splashing out in town, is the merry sounds of bells pealing - and so they have abolished some of the bell-ringing - among which is the 6 o'clock morning tolling, much to the dismay of those needing to milk their cows... so you can't really please everyone.

There are less than five thousand people in the whole of the village, on the outskirts of Treviso (Italy), yet it hosts four main Catholic parish churches and a number of chapels dotted all over the place, some of which also have bells! So you can imagine what kind of cacophony of chimes there is on a Sunday morning here.

That's why I find it almost impossible to believe that anyone could dream of complaining for the sake of a bell tolling once a month. Whatever will they complain about next? The birds chirping? Come to think of it, birds do make quite a bit of a clatter when they all get together at the break of dawn - when we are all in a semiconscious kind of state…

Only a few years ago, the peals of bells began as early as 5.45 in the morning, calling the faithful to early Mass at six, then another set of peals at 8 a.m. and again at 10 a.m., ending up with the Angelus at noon. Our villagers never minded the peals of bells early in the morning. It got them up to milk the cows, first thing, even if they didn’t attend Mass at that time. Back when few people in the village

The Pages

Flash Fiction

Empty Mornings are hateful. Waking to a prospect of another set of sun-blasted, empty hours feels like a mountain on his back, crushing him down into the parched, unrelenting ground until he can’t walk upright. His habitual stoop, the way he hunched over as though he couldn’t bear to raise his head, earned him notoriety in the town; that no one could prise a single word from his lips earned him a reputation for sourness. He slouches from one day to the next, a perpetual cycle of sameness. His weeks follow the same pattern, his path crosses with the same people that don’t know him, don’t understand him and – due to his reticence – have given up trying. Since Mary died, he hasn’t been able to find the words, they slip away from him sideways like sly spiders, hiding in the corners of his mind that have garnered only cobwebs since her light went out. On this morning, he encounters someone new working in the shop to earn a little holiday money. Her eyes follow him as he trudges around the shelves with his basket, selecting the usual items. He finishes his selections and moves towards the counter. He notices the softness of her youth: she reminds him of Mary when she was a girl, the way her ponytail shines like honey in the sunlight. “Hi,” she says “I’m Mary.” Startled, he answers without thinking. “I’m Stan.” And in the cold dark recesses, his lonely heart unfurls a little.

The Pages

Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist

The Forgotten Manuscript You all have some kind of skeleton rattling in your cupboard, don’t you? You know, that manuscript you meant to finish - or the one that just needs a bit of editing. No? Not a single one? Well, my creator has me (and a few more, I dare say, but they are not bothering me - not for now anyway). I’ll rattle her and worry her, nudge her and whisper in her ear for as long as it takes. She’s not getting rid of me, even if she has suddenly started favouring other protagonists, in other settings. I was first! It's a long story, and goes way back (and I mean WAY back, but don’t tell her I said so), to when she was fourteen years old. She got this germ of an idea into her head and wrote a story about me. Just a short story, but it wasn’t a school essay, it was a proper story - and so she sent it off to a magazine. What was she thinking? She was a kid, for goodness’ sake! But she was told to keep writing, and addressed as an adult, so despite being rejected, she felt good. So good, she resurrected me some thirty years later. She got busy - so busy she forgot about almost everything else for a few months - and then suddenly I got cast aside. Just like that. I still don’t understand what happened, but if she thinks that I’m about to fizzle out like a spent sparkler, she has another thing coming. I’ll just bide my time…

(pseudonym?) was supposed to be published in that same magazine - as long as space allowed. Well, it didn’t, and it has never appeared. Boo! I say. Anna tried again, re-wrote my letter (she’s like that!) and submitted it to a Writers’ Website, but there seems to be too many procrastinators around and my little rant was surplus to requirement. Another rejection. So she has shelved it. Anna has had the audacity to shelve my story. I know why, of course. She doesn’t want anyone to know how fickle she really is. To be continued…

I know what she thought: She thought that I had padded off quietly on my non-existent feet, never to be heard of or thought about again. Except that she kept the manuscript. Silly girl. (I mean woman. I forgot she’s not fourteen any more.) I played a big part in her life once, and just because I was not yet fully formed, as far as the story went, I was still complete in another sense - and I know it doesn’t take much for her to think of what we once had.

(Cartoon by Linda Daunter, first published in the old Writer’s Monthly 1990)

She remembered me this morning. One of her magazines dropped onto the doormat; that’s what made her remember. A year ago my letter of complaint against Anna (couldn’t she have thought of a better

The Pages

Photo Story and Poetry Competitions

Short Story Competition This issue’s short story competition is a photo story. We invite you to write a short story using the photograph shown opposite as your inspiration. Feel free to plumb the depths of your imagination, being as fantastical and experimental - or alternatively as conventional as you wish. The photo is an autumnal woodland scene; you can choose to write about what happens there and to whom (or what?). Or perhaps you’ll feel inspired by the enchanted nature of the photograph; a place fit for faeries perhaps?

Please email your entries to annareiers@aol.com All entries should be submitted by midnight (GMT) on the 25th August.

Your story should be maximum 1000 words.

Poetry Competition For the poetry competition, we’re using the same photograph – and how you interpret it is up to you. All we ask is that it is a maximum of 40 lines.

Entry fee is £1.50 per story or poem, and you may as many times as you wish. You can find payment instructions under the ‘Competitions’ tab on www.freewebs.com/theapprenticewriter/

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There is a prize of £25 to be won in each category and the winning story and poem will also be published in the next issue of The Pages. In addition, they may also be included in a future anthology with the writers’ approval.

The Pages

…and Finally

And finally we would like to draw your attention to The Challenge, ‘Another Haircut!’ on My Writing Life: www.freewebs.com/annareiers/ For every poem, short story, rant or even short fillers, submitted on the above topic, I will match the word count in writing my own manuscript of the same title. Contributions are posted up on The Challenge page and the manuscript on the Another Haircut page. At the end of the venture, we’ll publish an eBook containing all the accepted contributions, with the proceeds going to The Childrens Chronic Arthritis Association. Deadline: 30th September 2008. As well as… Marc Latham: (As featured in the July issue of Writer's News) I am hoping to release an ebook of folding mirror poetry later in the year, and welcome any poems you would like to have featured in it. Please send them through my contact page. It will be a free book, so there will be no payment, but you will have the opportunity to appear in the first (and possibly last!) folding mirror poetry book. I hope you are interested, and have fun creating the FMs. Details on the FM form are featured in the My Life, My Writing file on my Biography page. GreenyGrey.co.uk The Website of Writer and Researcher Marc Latham. http://www.greenygrey.co.uk/

The Pages

…and some more

Fiona Robyn writes: People keep sending me fantastic small stones after reading my blog (www.asmallstone.com) and so I thought it was about time they had their own home. I'm starting 'a handful of stones' (http://ahandfulofstones.blogspot.com) and I need some good quality submissions before I begin posting. If you'd like to submit, send up to three small stones to fiona@fionarobyn.com. Each stone should record a moment of 'paying attention', and can be up to 100 words, with or without a title. Please title the email 'a handful of stones submission'. Include your full name, and a single link to your blog or website if you'd like it to be included.

And… Check out: KUDOS #71 (formerly Competitions Bulletin): July/August; runs mainly from the end of July up to mid September, and beyond in some cases: UK, USA and much, much more… www.kudoswriting.wordpress.com/

A first novel by Sue Guiney

http://www.freewebs.com/dwrob

Read a review on Bookerzats: http://www.bookersatz.blogspot.com/

Orbis: a long-standing quarterly international literary journal, based in the UK.

http://www.sueguiney.com http://sueguineyblog.blogspot.com/

www.poetrymagazines.org.uk

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