The Pages
September/October 2008
Issue 2
The Pages
Contents
Submissions 6 Guidelines
Articles 11 In my opinion… Wrap Rage 13 The Writing life 15 The garden at little oak 22 The peaceful fight for cruelty free farming 23 True story – To England’s green and pleasant land
Fiction 8 Short Story – Of Flies and Friends 20 Flash Fiction – Planet Aquaria 21 …More Flash Fiction – Something Fishy …And – In the End
Poetry 7 The Circle of Life 18 Can You Tell me Where God is? 19 At 25 On Writing Poetry
Competition 24 Short story & Poetry - It’s a Rollover!
And… 28 The Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist cont. 30 An advent Anthology
And Finally… 30 …This!
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The Pages
Contributors Marit (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales, UK in 1972. Married, with 6 daughters and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front - but makes time for writing. She’s had comments, articles, poems, true-life stories and short stories published, as well as having work in anthologies published in aid of charities. Marit has just completed her first novel, and is still stunned by the fact that she managed to do so after several attempts where she ‘dried up’ two thirds of the way in. 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 11 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 pursue 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.
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. 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.
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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/
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. She has provided us with this month’s cartoon. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/linda
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 Trevor Belshaw has, after years of talking about it, finally taken up the writer’s challenge. He was born in Ilkeston, Derbyshire, in 1953, but moved to Nottinghamshire after he left school in 1970. His working life has, in his own words, seen him ‘change careers with alarming regularity’, although for the last 12 years he has been working for himself, building, repairing and upgrading computers after getting a City and Guilds award in the subject. The urge to write, however, remains. His passions include his dogs (Molly and Maisie; a constant source of inspiration for his writing) and Nottingham Forest Football Club. www.trevorbelshaw.com (Under construction.) Sharon BIRCH is a writer, originally from the North East of England but now living in the Scottish Highlands. With success in flash fiction and short story markets, she has been published in a variety of magazines and ezines. Sharon is currently writing ‘Living with FrED,’ a factual book about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a genetic condition that affects her and her three children. It is to be published early 2009. Her novel will soon follow...
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
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Daniel Haynes was born in Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham. He is a 30 years old English Literature BA graduate from Lancaster University, living in Cheshire with his wife Alison, their cat Moxy, 12 mice, 1 gerbil and a hamster! He currently works for the NHS as a Data Analyst by day, but then puts on his writing hat at night. Besides writing, his other interests include playing competitive Scrabble, playing guitar and mandolin, walking, reading, and ten pin bowling. He is also keen on keeping fit, and healthy eating. He has had poetry published in Small press magazines in the UK, and also on Writelink, a web-based writing community.
'Su ... writes like a painter; her close observation and arresting descriptions efficiently re-create events and surroundings, and draw us, fascinated, into her very special world.' UA Fanthorpe Su was amused when described as, ‘an artist, poet and writer’. More like, ‘a rebel turned eccentric’, she replied.
Marie Fullerton Barrett is a freelance writer, illustrator and poet. Originally from 1066 country, Hastings (UK) she now lives in the Portsmouth area with partner Harry. As well as bringing up eight children and looking after countless others as a childminder, Marie’s worked in a boarding school for children that had behavioural and learning difficulties encouraged her to develop her writing for classroom use. She has also produced and edited school magazines and newsletters and continues to write worksheets for colleagues at a further education college. Marie has written since she was a child and at the age of 51 she achieved a 2.1, BA Hons in English that included creative writing in order to enhance her writing skills further. She is also still involved with critiquing, proofreading and work-shopping for creative writing colleagues at the University and illustrates for other writers in her spare time. Wendy Webb is editor of TIPS for Writers: poetry publisher. Her poems have been published in many small press poetry magazines and she has also self-published many collections, the latest is ‘Refusal to Mourn from Dartmoor to Dylan Thomas’. She also has a new collection through Reach Magazine (competition prize) out soon: ‘Salvador Dali meets Juliet.’ She has had many awards and prizes. Find the full bio on The Apprentice Writer website.
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The Pages
Editorial
Mariella Frostrup, presenter of the Book Show on Sky Arts, says that you need solitary time to be a writer (Writers’ News, Sept. 2008). Solitary time? I don’t even know what that is, unless you count the late night (or early) hours when the world et al has retired to bed. If you wait until you have uninterrupted time to yourself, you may wait until it’s too late. If you’re a writer, you write. Full stop. Or perhaps that should be opposite. Keep going! But - I’m no different to any other writer in as much as I have always wanted a room of my own. A study, with the walls lined with bookshelves, and plenty of space to keep all my writing paraphernalia, my research, reams of notes and a few inspirational black and white photographs. A pastoral view would be a bonus, too. Oh, yes, and my laptop, of course. Now that our girls have flown the nest, there are spare rooms, but I learnt years ago, when running a business from home, that it was not a good idea to set aside a room for the express and sole purpose of any kind of business, because it would then incur business rates. So I could say that I write for a hobby, until I land that coveted commission… or like someone said, put the ironing board in there – and the laundry basket. Laundry - to clutter up my study? No, that would just remind me what a bad housewife I am – and I don’t need any reminders. Instead I have ended up at my desk in the living room, with my laptop and other bits and pieces. I have my back turned to the TV and have got very good at switching myself off. The trouble is that I disappear into a world of my own, forgetting time and space. I could be writing anywhere – and I have: on a plane, a train, on the bus (frequently, when in college), in the garden, in a park and in a café, once or twice – and of course, surrounded by children. Wanting and needing a room of one’s own are two completely different things. I’m happy as long as I can write – and I can do that anywhere.
Marit
Submission Guidelines In each issue we aim to publish at least two poems, two short stories, an essay or open article, an article on the Writing Life – from any angle – a travel article and a piece of Flash Fiction (up to 500 words), minimum. 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.
Submission We cannot offer payment as of yet, but aim to do so in the future, dependingGuidelines on incoming revenue. 6
The Pages
Poetry
The Circle of Life After the pain and the writhing here she comes at last. After the panting and straining her soft head is breaching fast. Stop for the cord and then slither into the midwife’s hands, up to the arms of her mother forming strong safeguarding bands. All through the long hours of waiting I wished I could take on the pain. For the sake of my beautiful daughter I would suffer it over again. And through several decades I am sure the same thing will happen again. Her mother will want to protect her from life and inevitable pain. But the moment of magic came rushing as small fingers and toes unfurled. There is nothing to beat the arrival of a grandchild into the world.
Š Jean Knill
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The Pages
Short Story Of Flies and Friends
Flies love chocolate. Cadbury Flake is their favourite. The tiny pieces stick neatly on the end of their proboscis. I watch with a giant’s fascination as a fly tap-dances amongst my fallen crumbs. ‘He won’t eat much’ comes as a line from a distant thought and it is true. To me it seems there is just as much chocolate left when he finishes as when he started. There is tenacity to a fly, it keeps going from speck to speck as if trying to find the perfect fit. Nature is the same wherever you turn, just in different degrees and sizes. No one size fits all. Maybe no size fits at all. I remember the silence vacuum, the hiatus of a hurried departure. A note of expectation written in the air. A willing of a ‘return to me’ sign or ‘a don’t go’ gesture. A husband leaving. Nothing unusual about that. Nothing at all except the unexpected finality. And it continues throughout the week, the only things constant are the tiny summer flies. But it is only autumn and winter will be here soon. I know that flies live an average of seventy-two hours. Three days in which to eat, mate and stretch their wings. That is unless I wield my fly swat, the one in the shape of a hand. The hand of doom. I hold the power of life or death, the power to let the flies reach their cosmo-potential or die impotent with scant flight hours beneath their wings. My friend peers at me, eyes dark with pity, or sadness, or guilt. The blackness of it a stain on our friendship, a friendship which is receding like a tide. I push against the resistance to face an avalanche of facts, which crash my thoughts. Double betrayal and more. “So will you take him back, Andrea?” she says, a nervous twitch to her voice. I look into her eyes, trying to find the truth there. They remind me of a fly’s, myriad faceted but depthless. I focus again on the coffee she has made me, like thousands of coffees before, over more than two decades of sharing. I wonder how she justifies it. Wonder that I did not see it coming. I recall her past relationship and how it had ended in the same way. But that was her other best friend at another time, it was not me. I address my own shallowness. I recall how I save beetles from drowning in the dog’s water bowl, but not the black conglomeration of tiny bugs, each smaller than a pinprick. As if size matters to worth. How much then the weight of my soul? But my friend can’t grasp the gravity of anything heavier than the burden of day to day living. She takes and complains and lives. Suddenly, she looks sad. I ask what’s wrong and fear the answer. It doesn’t come, nothing that you can put a question to anyway. Her tears push forth in gushes of self-sympathy. I wonder if any will be left for me.
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“It’s just that I’ve known you guys for so long. I hate to see you breaking up. I haven’t been able to sleep or eat.” Her eyes open wide as I ask why ever not. Her turn of shrug as she collects her deceit tells me more than any confirmation by words. With a shaking hand she brushes her hair from her face even though it has not fallen away. The gesture is as unmistakable as a nervous tic. I continue staring until she turns her back on me, and asks if I want more cake. She opens the door to the cupboard, the one with only plates. Even I know where she keeps her cake. “I will have more, Viv,” I say as she wavers with her thumb in her mouth, staring at the stacked plates. “And some chocolate too, if you have any.” Chocolate has similar chemicals to those the brain produces when you fall in love. My mind stretches to accommodate this thought, to wrap it around my friend and my husband. Binding them together with something more honourable than lust. But the thought is viced in its frame of wrongness. The glass veneer of trust shattered. Viv at last finds the right cupboard. I take two pieces of chocolate and eat them, drink my coffee and think of a poisonous chalice and how it could be delivered. So many ways. So many ways to die, to kill. And I do it every year in the name of hygiene and living. Trillions of germs, thousands of insects, dozens of animals. I bend my environment, distort time and rush over travel. Arrive at my destination yesterday, even as the crow flies, for time is altered by distance. I recall my last plane trip. There was a fly sitting on my window rim. They were all window seats on this plane. This fly had a flying phobia. He was agitated, washing his eyes cat like, over and over, with his arms. I wondered if they had lubricant or if the surface of his many lenses were being flayed with tiny scratches. That soon he would be blind as well as being afraid. Strange paradox, I thought, a fly afraid to fly. But then there were those living, afraid to live. Afraid to push the envelope, afraid to branch out, afraid to take the road less travelled, afraid of the many other platitudes which came to mind as easily as I could have squashed this fly with my thumb. No one would condemn me. But I would. And he was flying faster than any other fly on earth. But between us I alone held the concept of speed and the focal point, or lack thereof, which makes it seem as if we are either racing along or cruising leisurely. This fly was real to me, as real as the woman across the aisle with the paper bag held to her mouth, as real as the child draped across his mother’s shoulder with his grubby fingers sleep-gripped to her back, as real as the sky, milk white with the clouds we seemed to be drifting through. My friend is speaking far too quickly. “So, Andrea, you didn’t answer my question. Will you have him back?” I realize she wants to know for her sake. To save waiting until I am ready. In that instant I know that my husband would still choose me over her if I wanted it so. “I am not sure, Viv. The time he’s given me to decide isn’t up yet.” She stops stirring her tea and looks at me crookedly.
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“Surely three more days won’t make any difference.” It is not a question and I detect a glint of hope in her eyes. A fly settles near her hand. She squashes it without thought and then grimaces at the mess. The carnage of its tiny body, the viscous entrails splattered in a red dot. “Damn flies,” she says, getting some paper towel to clean the mess. I watch as she washes the blood from her hands. I opted for my flies to die of old age. In the morning they were gone. Three days can make a difference. Myra King ©
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The Pages
In My Opinion… “Wrap Rage”
Here’s a little tale of woe that demonstrates just how packaging companies do not stop to consider third agers. They say that the man who builds a simpler mousetrap will make a fortune. I have a simpler mousetrap. My index finger. It is the kiss of death to the computer mouse. I go through at least half a dozen of the things every year. Then someone suggested I buy an optical mouse. It has no moving parts so it should last longer. There are rumours that I’m tight-fisted, but it’s not true. I object to the way She Who Must Be Obeyed squanders money on inessentials like eye shadow, lipstick, rent, gas, food, etc., but when it comes to life’s necessities, such as beer, fags, 3mm diamond head tile drills, optical mouses/mice/meece, I know how to spend. I popped along to the local supermarket and picked one up for £7,95. The young chap who sold it to me assured me that if there was anything wrong, all I had to do was bring it back in its original packaging and they would refund my money. Couldn’t go wrong, could I? When I got home, I realised it was in one of those sealed plastic packages. I think they weld them into place. Gripping both sides as tightly as my crimped fingers would allow, I pulled, tugged, rived, cursed, kicked and threw the thing everywhere and still it would not open. Here was a paradox. How could I tell whether there was anything wrong without getting it out of the packaging and if there was, how could I re-seal the packaging? A veteran DIY-er, I applied a little practical. I set up the workmate, charged up the power drill and took a 1.5mm pilot drill to it. I figured if I could just get a tiny hole in there, I’d be able to prise the two halves of the package apart using a jeweller’s screwdriver, and of course, I have a full set of such drivers. No go. No purchase for the drill head. So I tapped a metal punch on it, to give myself a slight indentation upon which the drill would bite. Still no go. The drill still slipped on the polymer surface. I eventually got the hole drilled by using a self-tapping screw, but first I had to bring out the hammer drill out, punch a hole in the wall, plug it, then press the packaging to the wall, and force the fine point of the screw through the plastic and into the wall plug. Afterwards, I removed the screw, stripped out the wallplug, rendered up and I’m redecorating on Monday.
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Guess what? I still couldn’t part the two halves of the packaging. There was insufficient space between the two halves to get a jeweller’s screwdriver in. In desperation, I got out the oxy-acetylene torch, put on the welding mask and gloves and I was just about to burn my way into it when I realised that the mouse itself was made of plastic, so not only would the packaging melt, but so would the actual implement and I think it would have shot my guarantee. By now I was pulling my hair out (well I would have been if I had any to pull). How was I supposed to get the bleeding thing out short of using dynamite? I checked the Internet to see how much explosive I would need, but it only told me I’d need several pounds, correctly placed and timed, to bring down a mill chimney. I didn’t want to bring down a mill chimney. All I wanted to do was open a plastic package. I came up with another solution and called a mate of mine. I figured we could use plumbers’ plungers, one attached each side of the package, then rope them to our cars, and drive off in different directions. It didn’t work. I’m left with a plastic package with a plumber’s plunger attached to each side, after his back bumper fell off. All I can say is whoever designed this packaging can look after my money. Any selfrespecting bank robber would have given up hours ago and resorted to shoplifting tins of corned beef from Tesco. Eventually, I gave up and cut the top off the package with a pair of hairdressing scissors. Then I had to get the grinding wheel out to sharpen the scissors. Having done this, I managed to prise the two halves open far enough for me to retrieve the mouse and instructions. But the thing came with a natty little case and that’s still in the bottom of the plastic package. I’m planning that assault for tomorrow. Don’t you ever hanker for the old days of a simple paper bag? By the way, the mouse works just fine.
David Robinson ©
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The Pages
The Writing Life… Life Writer’s Block
Writer’s Block – Huh! Writer’s block? Procrastination? What’s the difference? Well I suppose one is deliberate or otherwise … yeah… delaying tactics, and the other is… Well, Writer’s block! **** ‘Here she goes again. I just get excited and, well I mean, how often do you get written? Let me tell you, it’s a once in a lifetime thing. And after all, it isn’t as if there’s a shortage of storylines, is there? I do my best to shove things under her nose then something just drifts into her head and I’m history… again! Totally unreasonable I say, and before you start harping on about writer’s block spare a thought for me for a change. I mean, I’m the story, have you any idea what it’s like not to make it to thought level? **** Now this is a new challenge for me, bit of an oxymoronic situation here – me? Write about writer’s block when I am the queen of it. Thank you to those that made the suggestion. OK, I’m gonna get serious. Take an image …say… a bath… Ask questions. Is it full, empty, new, old, plastic, ceramic, chipped? Who is running it? Why? Is she going to pamper herself soaking in hot bubbles with candles around the bath? Or is he planning to drown the kittens? What if the floor gives way and the bath is upstairs? What if…. He wants to be romantic and share the bath… but she slams his head against the tiles and knocks him unconscious before letting him slip, or pushing him, under the water – ‘ He slipped when we were um… I couldn’t hold him, sob, by the time the water had drained (and I had put my robe on and smoked a cigarette.) he wasn’t breathing, I tried to hold him above water but I … I feel so awful, I killed him didn’t I? I couldn’t help him! **** ‘Hooray! She’s got one, now I am real! In existence! I can relax while she gets on with it.’ **** Hmmm, trouble is that’s been done before … There is one thing that has always fascinated me though. Where do all the shoes on the motorway come from? They always seem to be men’s, you know, trainers. There must be a story there. Hehe, that reminds me of a time when I was scrounging a lift from a neighbour, her small son decided he didn’t want to go to school that day and so proceeded to extricate himself from his clothes and attempt to sling them out of the window. Until his mother closed the window that is. By the time he had arrived at this posh public school, he was down to his underpants. Don’t know how I didn’t laugh. We managed to retrieve the majority of them, well minus his cap and I left them to go and explain why they were late to the … **** ‘What! What the hell is this? I turn my back thinking I am going to be a delightful murder mystery and she starts rambling on about some delinquent kid next door… Sheesh!’
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**** This is hopeless. My thoughts are constantly trying to conjure up this story, I can’t decide. ‘Mum!’ a voice escalates from downstairs. ‘What’s for breakfast?’ At seventeen, Tabitha is old enough to sort herself out. I take a deep breath and let out a long sigh before I answer. ‘ I am getting ready for work, you’ll have to get your own.’ ‘I’m gonna be late, I have to be at Hannah’s or I’ll have to walk.’ The cupboard door slams and a cup falls off the rack smashing into tiny fragments on the tiled floor. ‘Now look what you made me do!’ I resist yelling, refusing to be dragged into her mood. ‘Just sweep it into the corner and I’ll sort it out later – you look in the fridge and decide for yourself what you want for breakfast.’ I finish my make-up and join my daughter downstairs, not daring to look at the state of the kitchen. It will still be there when I get home, I am sure. ‘Did you find something?’ I ask, not really requiring an answer. I really cannot believe this child - rice pudding on toast! Ah well, at least she’s eaten something and seems happy. By seven am we have left the house and she’s on her way to her mates before college and I am waiting to catch the ferry across the harbour. People are bustling and rushing around, I wonder if they have even noticed the sunrise behind the tower? Two or three gulls silhouette against the bright pink streaks that melt across the last of the night sky. The ferry is rocky and the sea is rising and falling with some force but every so often it stills. The wind whips the waves and the surface looks as if a million cats are lapping at the surface. Oh look, there in the middle of it all floats a solitary leaf. What on earth is a sycamore leaf doing floating in the ocean? **** Well, that’s it! She’s lost it now – let me get this straight. I start out as a bath, right? Then a murder in the bath, then somehow I end up as an abandoned trainer on a motorway followed by a brat child that de-robes in a car on the way to school. Then, she’s off on one of her daydreams to escape from the breakfast carry on and I end up as a ragged end of some rice pudding on toast in a sea of lapping cats round part of a bloody tree in the ocean! Great! Writer’s block! Where does that leave me? Marie Fullerton Barrett ©
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The Pages
Kangaroo Paw
The Garden at Little Oak Part 1
Agapanthus
August 2008 Our soil is stony and in a normal summer, drains well and is very dry. Generally it doesn’t become embarrassingly lush as it is currently. Some might call it overgrown. The lawns have never been greener. As a rule they are yellow by the end of June, at the moment the only yellow patches have been left on the back lawn by our pointer bitch, Liza. We had to hire a company with long hedge trimmers this weekend, something we’ve never done before. The hedges have grown thick and too much for a pair of shears and they are too tall for my husband to trim, though he’s over six foot with long arms! It took two men with two trimmers three hours to get them done; calculate how much hedge did one man trim in an hour? Sorry that was too good to miss. The trimmings, some of which were big and bendy went into our three green garden bags for collection by the bin men. Occasionally we have more than these bags can hold, then David visits the tip with our own larger green bag which isn’t adorned with the words FBC in white on its side.
Spring, summer and autumn are the seasons when fruit and vegetables keep appearing in the kitchen and need to be dealt with. I freeze a great many things including fruit for jam. It is so much easier to make it when there aren’t a hundred other things to be done. I weigh the fruit into bags ready to go. It is also possible to make jam with interesting and unusual combinations of fruit.
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Produce is mostly good. Spinach has never been better. Huge dark green leaves free of pests and disease. We get a few cabbage white butterfly eggs on the backs of leaves but we are picking so regularly they don’t get to turn into caterpillars, we just rub them of when we are washing leaves in the sink. Runner and French beans are producing well. The runners are grown up homegrown Bamboo Tetra- (not tri) pods. The ground was too stony and dry for early raspberries when we came here 30 years ago so we changed to Autumn Bliss which has served us well and is beginning to produce large red blobs of luscious flavour. Black and red currants are over and gooseberries, which were sparse, are long gone.
Grenadier apples are just ready to pick. They don’t keep well so that’s a job for me. I stew and freeze them. I stew all the fallers too but we keep a few Bramleys for baked apples. Last year they were going soft by Christmas though previously we had been able to keep them into the New Year. Our Russets come off in September as a rule. We keep a few of these in one of the vegetable boxes in the fridge. It doesn’t hold more than eighteen, but Russet is a tasty variety of dessert apples.
Butterflies have been scarce but there have been more varieties in the garden recently. We haven’t seen peacock butterflies for several years but this year I’ve seen seven or eight. Red Admirals are plentiful and we’ve seen Ringlets too. They are little, dark orange butterflies, not unlike the Gate-Keepers; they are always around as are Speckled Woods and Meadow Browns. At this time of the year we often see humming-bird hawk moths on summer flowering jasmine and geraniums. Despite the rain slugs haven’t been a problem this year. Getting rid of slugs and snails is never pleasant but if you don’t, they quickly gobble up anything green. Salt is the usual cry if you don’t go along with slug pellets for the sake of animals, though there are some safe ones on the market now. I think these may actually attract slugs. Salt isn’t easy to dispense whereas vinegar in a hand-wash bottle is simple and very quick.
We’ve been making compost in bins for a couple of years now, and the soil structure is improving where it has been applied, we are even getting a few straight carrots. All our vegetable waste goes in a biodegradable bag in a little bin kept outside but nearer to the house than the big ones. This is then transferred. Root crops are not easy to grow on stony soil but our beetroot have also come on well with the compost and extra rain.
We had a good show of red Bottle Brushes this summer! Like Eucalyptus it is native to Australia. We grew ours from seed brought home by a travelling daughter. We also have a Tea tree and Kangaroo Paws!! Agapanthus is/are looking glorious right now. They are so blue they somehow make up for all the grey skies we’ve seen recently. They must be in full sun to flower well. We moved a couple of bulbs hoping to brighten a dark corner but they haven’t bloomed.
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We have several Buddleias including Black Knight and two white ones. The shorter of the two had huge impressive flower spikes whereas the taller one looks more delicate and in the recent winds stems were bending like well-balanced acrobats. Our Judas tree flowered well and has produced pods this year. We think it is sick. Plants often produce more flowers and seeds if they are dying. This is a natural attempt to propagate the species. The Senna produced a lot of bright yellow pea-like blooms and is covered in pods too, but it is every year. I remember a much loved small Victoria plum, which stood proudly on the back lawn. The trunk became slightly damaged and it was laden with fruit in the following year; so much we were inviting friends in to pick their own. The weight of fruit caused the tree to split down the middle and we lost it. Victoria plum trees are rather susceptible to this behaviour. We replaced it with a Ginko Biloba. Now there’s an interesting plant. Post Script. The little Cyclamen in the picture are flowering now. They seem to grow almost wild here. We use them as ground cover in areas which otherwise produce only weeds. Flowers precede the leaves, which are also attractive. Sometimes the corms grow as large as dinner plates!
Rosa Johnson Š
Cyclamen
Senna Pods
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The Pages
Poetry
Can You Tell Me Where God Is? Can you tell me where God is? Does he live quite near? I've been asking for Him all over the place and somebody sent me here. They said to ask for St Peter and he'd put my name on a list. If you do, could you slip it in higher, typed in bold to make sure its not missed? Can you tell me if God's in? Or when he'll be back from his trip. I'm willing to wait as long as it takes, There's been a bit of a blip. Is God ever back in his office? Nobody answers the ring, I seem to have spent all day on the phone, listening to Cliff Richard sing. Can you tell me where God is? There seems to have been a mistake I've been sent up to this place in the sky and it should have been big Billy Blake. Billy was holding the shotgun. He pointed it up to his head. But his hands were shaking so badly, he missed and shot me instead. If God is so terribly busy, Could I just speak to his lad? He said he might put a good word in for me, I just wanted to check that he had. Can you tell me where God is? I seem to have slipped through the net. I'm not on the list of the dead or the dying; 18
I'm not ready for this place just yet. Can I get hold of God's email address? I'd like to make a complaint. I've been trying to get through for weeks now, I'm patient, but I'm not a Saint. Does God or his son go on MSN? Can I log on for a chat? I'm pretty good on the laptop, I know how to Google and that. Does God know his network has gone down again? Is there a help desk to call? I keep getting, error, page can't be displayed. It's like running against a brick wall. Can you tell God that it's urgent? That I'm in a bit of a stew and Big Billy finally got here. He's got some explaining to do.
Trevor Belshaw Š
At At dawn, sharing tar stained beach with fishermen tossing scraps at shrill gulls, I collected pebbles with a hole, strung them on string, made a necklace. At noon I squinted at dots, container-ships on a silver horizon, picked slimy knots of twisted seaweed, washed by sea fizz. Sniffed salted air. At dusk, in the shade of red setting sun, cold at water's hissing edge, in pink sand I etched my words of love, remembered you. I heard your call. Su Laws Baccino Š
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The Pages
Flash Fiction
Planet Aquaria 'Have you heard the legend about the planet of land and water?' The children at the back stopped throwing pens, and turned around to face the front. A planet made of land and water? Miss Harper smiled with satisfaction. Twenty pairs of eyes were now hanging on her every word. 'Shall I carry on, or do you want to do some spelling tests instead?' 'Carry on Miss, please.' The whole class was transfixed, all petty arguments suddenly forgotten. 'Its natives didn't live on artificial islands or underwater cities like we do on Aquaria. They lived on real islands, made of earth and minerals, which rose out of the sea. Vast numbers of animals and insects lived on these islands. There were even continents, huge land-masses thousands of miles wide. Plants, flowers and forests covered the surface.' One of the children raised their hand at this point. 'How could these continents just disappear? What happened?' 'Legends talk of a global disaster, many thousands of years ago now. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but there are stories about the sea-levels rising quickly and the ice caps melting. All but the highest places above sea-level were swallowed up, leaving just a few small islands. Billions lost their lives in the floods - the planet's population was almost wiped out. Fresh water became scarce, and the temperature of the planet rose sharply because of the sudden release of tonnes of greenhouse gases into its atmosphere.' 'A team of elite scientists and other key bodies had forseen the approaching disaster and tried putting plans in place to deal with it. They had built a research lab high in the mountains and stocked it with enough food and oxygen to survive for 50 years. They were trying to build machines to stabilise the atmosphere artificially and support life on a vastly altered planet. Sadly, many of them died before they came up with a solution.' 'Luckily, during this time, the first aliens made contact with the planet. They had been watching from a distance for many hundreds of years, and realised that they had to get involved to sort the disaster out.With their superior technology, they helped the remaining survivors to adapt to a life without land and heal the planet as much as possible. They helped them to build cities and houses under water.' 'Is this planet still around today, Miss? What's it called?' 'Legend has it that it was originally called planet Earth. Some legends even go as far as saying that Aquaria itself was once Earth, but that they changed the name when it became a water planet. Archaeologists have apparently found bone fragments and fossils beneath Aquarias's seas, which they think support this theory...' Dan Haynes Š
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The Pages
… more Flash Fiction
Something Fishy ‘I wouldn’t drink that if I were you, the water tastes like fishes.’ ‘The water in my tea smells like fishes? You mean the water in my tea smells like fish?’ ‘No, I mean the water in your tea tastes like fishes, and by fishes I mean those slimy, scaly creatures that swim in the sea or lake or some such, and by taste I mean that which you do with your mouth and your tongue, not that which you do with your snooter! Do you need me to explain what tea and water are?’ Alan leant down, putting his nose close to the cup and took a few sharp, suspicious sniffs. Shrugging, he took a long slurp. ‘It doesn’t taste like fish to me.’ ‘Give it ‘ere.’ Donald snatched the cup from his son. He held the cup close to his nose, greedily breathing in the aroma, then sticking his nose in further - until it was virtually resting on the surface of the tea - sniffing at it like a dog on a scent. Finally he took a long measured sip. ‘I’m not sure – I’ve got a bit of a cold and my nose has been running like a tap all week – maybe the stink’s just up my nose?’ Alan wrinkled his nose in disgust, ‘you have this cup then, and I’ll make another.’ He walked into the kitchen muttering something incoherent about hygiene, parents and senility. Donald strode into the garden triumphant, his trophy in hand. Kristina Meredith ©
In the end… If the stove had been in, I would say, 'The kettle's boiling, pull it to one side darling, that whining could drive a man to madness.' If the wind were blowing, whipping up a gale outside, pushing through the cracks, permeating the very bones of our little house. I would say, 'turn the set up darling, that howling has become to much to bear.' But the stove is cold and the wind is still. So instead I gently stroke your soft cheek and feel the softness of your pillow against it, and know that I have been driven to madness because it's become too much to bear. 'Goodbye my darling.' Kristina Meredith ©
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The Pages
Article The Peaceful Fight for Cruelty-free Farming
The other Great Faiths can teach us so much, if we are willing to listen. Gandhi asserted that “Animals have spirits and souls also:” and that “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be measured by the way in which its animals are treated.” People of no particular faith teach us much. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals assert that “Animals are not ours to eat, to wear, to entertain us, or to experiment on.” To be sure, this philosophy holds the moral high ground, and the Charity’s peaceful fight will continue until these ideals are realized. Compassion In World Farming’s fight is just that - compassion for the transient beings who are reared for food. They have secured great achievements, such as restricting the times for the journeys that livestock have to endure without food, water and rest. They seek an eventual trade in meat only, and ultimately, slaughter on farm. They have exposed the cruel practise of ‘mulesing’ in Australia, where 80% of our wool comes from. Ranchers carve long strips of flesh off the backs of lambs legs to produce smooth scarred skin that will not support fly strike. The Charity campaigns for the breed of sheep, chosen for their thick, heavy wool, to be changed. This would render the cruel practise unnecessary. Meanwhile, they ask the compassionate to boycott Australian wool. They have exposed the cruelty of fur farming. How can anyone revere the beauty of a skin, while having no reverence for the wonderful, complete beauty of the owner who occupied it? Many compassionate fashion houses have rejected using fur. They have exposed the cruelty of the feather trade. Ultimately, all animals used in these ‘other’ sorts of farming suffer immeasurably, and all are killed at the end of their productive seasons. Because of these Charities, the secular world often leads the religious world by humane example. York City has banned the sale of pate de foie gras - literally fatty liver described by PETA as ‘sandwiches of torture’. To produce it, live birds are subjected to a process called gavage from the age of 8 - 10 weeks old. For 12 - 21 days, up to 4 pounds of grain is forced down their gullets through a hollow tube, often pushed down with a stick. The birds become too sick to walk. The ‘delicacy’ for the bored rich is the grotesquely enlarged, diseased liver. Hepatic lipidosis presents because the liver, the body’s sewage system - simply cannot function in its job as a toxin filter. On one New York farm so many ducks died when their stomachs burst from overfeeding that workers who killed fewer than 50 per month were paid a bonus. PETA says, “there is no kind way to steal an animal’s liver”. The production of foie gras is prohibited in many countries of the world; it’s sale is banned from the in-flight menus of many world airlines, and in many restaurants. The Charities seek a world wide ban on its production, import and sale, with our help. Doctor Albert Schweitzer lived in his African home amongst disease and deathcarrying flies, yet he refused to kill another living creature; saying that they were made by the same loving hand, and had as much right to life as he did. Surely, in light of this truth, we must conclude that humans who have no reverence for other - not lesser -forms of life, should re-assess their reverence for God, who breathed his life into all living beings; to whom we all belong, and to whom we are accountable. © Rev. Linda M. Price 22
The Pages
True Story To England’s Green and Pleasant Land First published in ‘The Oldie’ expat column August 2007
Along with a dozen or so other beggars, Godfrey worked the patch near the traffic lights at the bustling, scruffy Namanga junction near St Peter’s Catholic Church. Hoping for a better life, he had come by train to the capital, Dar es Salaam, five years previously, when Tanzania’s economy had started picking up. He was from Kigoma, on Lake Tanganyika, a thousand kilometres to the west. He had been stricken by polio as a child, and had lost the use of both legs. Namanga was between my home and everywhere, so I passed several times a day, on my way to and from work, the gym, shopping, and on the school run. If the lights were red, beggars and vendors would crowd the dusty, potholed stretch outside the window of my Land Rover Discovery. The hawkers soon learnt that I did not like buying from the car window, and that I was not interested in cheap fans, plastic calendars, and dogs with bouncy heads for my dashboard, but they kept trying. Occasionally I conceded and bought some plantains, an avocado, or a bunch of fragrant pink frangipanis. Most of the beggars were cheerful, but this was their territory, and they did not let newcomers encroach. Three women who couldn’t walk squatted on the kerb, their heads covered with bright cotton scarves, far too close to the road, and giggled as they tried to catch coins thrown from car windows. Sometimes the flower sellers helped with the distribution. There seemed to be a shift system: a few beggars struggled up and down between the cars, on crutches, in wheelchairs, or crawling on the ground, while others rested in the shade of a baobab in front of the church. I had the impression they shared their takings. In a little hollow by the dashboard I kept a stock of one hundred shilling coins. One hundred shillings was equivalent to about a dollar. This seemed to be the going rate for the beggars, but occasionally, one would ask for more. “Mama, my sister died and I have to travel to Mbeya to bury her”, or “Mama, I need five hundred shillings to fix my wheel”. One taciturn man, George, who had lost a leg, stood apart from the others, leaning on a stick. He often asked me for extra for medical expenses. He had calluses all over his face. At first he would bring me receipts from Hoots Pharmacy, but later Godfrey told me he was spending the money on alcohol, so George and I stopped speaking. Godfrey was a leader. He was always well-dressed in long khaki trousers and a bright T-shirt, and wore a red baseball cap back to front. He had a shade on his wheelchair. Once he disappeared for two weeks. “I went home to Kigoma,” he told me when I saw him again. “I got married. I brought my wife back. Her name is Maria. Tomorrow I’ll show you her photo.” He hadn’t asked for extra for his trip. He never did, so I was surprised when one Saturday he said, “Mama, I need a thousand shillings for tomorrow. It’s Sports Day. The qualifiers for the big games. I’m weightlifting.” I had never allowed myself to imagine the lives the beggars led outside the Namanga crossroads. “Good luck,” I said, as I handed him the note. On Monday I saw Godfrey again. His whole face was laughing. “How are you?” “I’m great, mama, but my wife is sad,” he joked. “Why is she sad?” “Because she’ll miss me. I’m going away, to Manchester, in England, at the end of the month, for two weeks. Special Olympics. You see, mama, I won.”
Paola Fornari ©
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The Pages
Photo Story and Poetry Competitions
Short Story Competition This issue’s short story competition is a photo story.
also be included in a future anthology with approval from the writers.
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? 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. 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
Please email your entries to annareiers@aol.com All entries should be submitted by midnight (GMT) on the15th October. Note extended deadline!
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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The Pages
On Writing Poetry…
MAGI (Wendy Webb’s 2003 poetry form from NORFOLK) The MAGI ‘Wise Men’ Poems are based on the number THREE. To write a Magi, you must use 3 words per line, 3 lines per verse, and 3 verses to complete the poem. Any other variation is not a MAGI. No syllable count is necessary, keep punctuation minimal, use one vivid image to create the entire poem. You may write on any subject, so long as you use one vivid image for the entire poem. This modern poetry form will fit easily on a website screen or email. It is also useful for cards and other printed messages. End-line rhyming is not recommended, three words for the title would form a PERFECT MAGI, but a title of any length must be used simply to complement the poem. The flexibility of the MAGI lies in the varying of word lengths, flow of lines and careful use of punctuation. One image is contained within 27 carefully chosen words, using all your skills as a poet without rhyme. Form creator Wendy Webb (Pantoum winner, DSJT Awards 2001; Indigo Dreams 2008 Pamphlet Winner), also creator of DAVIDIAN (2002) and other recent verse forms.
FORGETFUL AS THE STARS So silently then majestic as birth imploding on time Star flickering gold hay’s scented worship stenches dulling myrrh Mundane herds forget suck milky pillows Sleep, infant royal.
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ECLIPSING A NEW EARTH It’s darker now, sun’s late and sky’s pregnant grey. Baby will turn, descend Suez Canal. Eclipse the moon. Only a day to transform humanity, deliver hope’s resolutions.
HELIGAN’S GIANT MERMAID Dreaming of seas she’s woodland-rocked, telling no tales. Heligan’s giantess awakes. Eve’s modern paradise lures Green Man. Sleep on mermaid; your floods revive each woodland nymph.
TENDER NARCISSUS’ SCENT I love you said so simply, a consummate vase. I love you: Paper Whites’ scent sharing sensuous meals. I love; you never. Fade softly, spring’s eternal dream.
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WINTER GARDEN Winter’s bare bones: Structure of fences Trees’ spines undressed Grasses shimmering dampness Robust, shapely evergreens Seedheads beguiling death Mahonia’s brash sunbeams Viburnum’s blush Dawn Bewitching red Diane.
SEASONED GREETINGS Buy star box of glimmering cards, shining with Resolutions. Send three today, then tri-weekly. Triplets all year. Magi’s fertile gifts, logos crossing deserts, surfing web nights.
NURSERY LESSONS Blind as mice, astronauts are cows and sailors, owls. Black retro sheep woolly in class, three bags deep. Cats diddle, diddle fatly they fiddle; humans blindly dumb. ©Wendy Webb, September 2008
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The Pages
Diary of a WouldWould-BeBe-Protagonist
cont.
Giving Anna a Taste of Her Own Medicine. I gave her a taste of her own medicine last night. She doesn’t realise what I can do. I suppose she thinks that I’m a mere figment of her imagination, but I’ll give her imagination. There’s a bit more to me than that. Last night I made her wait - and wait. I’m not sure she knew what she was waiting for, but she looked ready to get writing. Only I wasn’t ready to play ball. It was just a matter of hovering around till she gave up and went to bed - and till she was fast asleep. Of course that’s took some waiting on my part, too, but I’m used to that. Then I struck. I took her on a never-ending journey, with no real purpose and no destination. You get the idea, don’t you? It’s what she’s been doing to me. A little pay-back. I wasn’t exactly enjoying putting her through the wringer like that, but what else could I do? Oh, who am I kidding? I had great fun. I suppose that’s something I should be sorry about. But it’s not like I can physically lead her to the desk and make her pick up the pen, is it? And if I could, she’d only go writing about something completely different. Do you know, she’s even set up a blog on her progress on that other novel of hers. So, what’s wrong with me? Perhaps I should enjoy making her squirm. I did. Enjoy it I mean. I jolted her out of her dream without her having reached anywhere (just like she did with me), and while she was still in a state of confusion I dropped her right into another dream and then I let her stew. Or queue. Or both.
In any case it was a waiting game - and I know all about that. Anna found herself in a Post Office queue. She detests queues. Not that she would ever jump a queue, mind you. That’s why this seemed such a good idea. I made her have to stay there. Usually she turns on her heals and stomps off. And this woman used to be so patient. She was only third in the queue. An old man was first. Her impatience melted as he struggled to get all his business sorted with apologetic looks and gentle, unsure smiles. Somehow it back-fired on me and even though I dragged it out for an hour, she was okay. So that one didn’t work. That’s where I got clever. I took over the young man in front of her (felt kind of good to have a body at last, even if it was only temporary) and made myself as awkward as it’s possible to get. And that's AWKWARD! For two long hours I had my fun, as the lady behind the counter tried repeatedly to deal with my requests. I had to stop myself laughing as I thought of yet another one. I could feel Anna breathing down my neck as her blood was coming slowly to the boil. Or perhaps it was not so slow. ‘Oh, and could I have two second class stamps, please?’ I could almost feel her hands closing round my neck. That’s when I beat a hasty retreat and left that poor, young man blushing in my wake, not quite sure why he had his hands full of various postal items and forms, his credit card and a receipt showing him that he could forget the shopping.
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‘I only wanted a couple of stamps,’ he stuttered, as he backed away. Anna just glared at him as she stepped up to the counter. I made her forget what she was there for. I’d had my fun. She woke up all agitated. Ha! Now that she knows what it’s like to wait in a queue for a couple of hours, perhaps she’ll spare me a thought having to queue up for her attention with all sorts of characters, year in and year out. If she pushes me back to the end of the queue for long enough, I might just forget why I was here in the first place.
© Marit Meredith
(Illustration © Linda Daunter)
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The Pages
…and Finally
Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat… (or the nut roast in my case). So any day now the shops will start filling with all things Christmas, and of course we’re already thinking of our Christmas issue. We’d love see your take on the season. Speaking of Christmas, we’re hoping to do an Advent Anthology - 24 shorts stories - which would become available to read online each day in December - with the possibility of also making it available as an ebook and/or in print (if we did decide to take this route a percentage of any profit would go to charity). This of course will be subject to the amount of submissions we receive from you – about 24 should do it! Don’t forget, you can be as alternative or as conventional as you wish – as always we're aiming for an eclectic mix of writing. In fact the unconventional view on the Christmas season would be especially welcome. In addition it would be useful if you would consider registering your interest, ahead of sending your submissions, so that we can decide whether or no not it’s a feasible project. Send submissions via email: kjjmeredith@hotmail.com or maritmeredith@aol.com
As well as… 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. Gene Genii, the Anthology produced as a result of a Writing Marathon on The Grail in 2007, should be available from Amazon and other places shortly. The ISBN no is: 978-0-9558593-9-7 More details soon. Wendy Webb, the poet, also offers an eBook available free, in pdf format, if anyone is interested in a copy, from: tipsforwriters@yahoo.co.uk 30
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