The Pages
Issue 5
March/April 2009
Contents Editorial……………………..……………………………………………………………………6 Competition……………………...………………………………………………………………7 Runners Up The Night Spirit Fairy Tale…………………………………………………………………………. 8 The Night Spirit ................................................................................................................................. 10
Articles MP/GP What’s the difference………………………………………………………………………20 Death and Dolce in the Dolomites.....................................................................................................28 The Garden at Little Oak:3.................................................................................................................14
Poetry Cold kills……………………………………………………………………………………………12 Fur Hat……………………………………………………………………………………………...13 Spring……………………………………………………………………………………………….13 River Music………………………………………………………………………………………....19 Spring upbeat………………………………………………………………………………………. 34
Fiction Going Home.......................................................................................................................................11 Sylvie’s Inheritance............................................................................................................................17 The Ramblings of a Wrinkly..............................................................................................................25
Real Life Not the best of mornings .................................................................................................................... 32
Out Now Birthrights…………………………………………………………………………………………...16 Another Haircut? Review by Marilyn Sylvester ............................................................................ 21 Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories.............................................................................. 23 Guilt ................................................................................................................................................... 27
Pick of the Web ….…………….……………………………………………………………..35 Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist Limbo is No Place to Be .................................................................................................................... 36
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The Pages
Contributors
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 thecravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or fjords - it just added to her identity crisis. Now a mother to a very lively and curious 18 month old boy, life keeps her very busy. Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write.The Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with likeminded souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition.
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. She published a collaborative book of poems and prose, Another Haircut? in aid of charity, through Lulu, earlier this year. Recently she added a short story collection to her Lulu publications, and both are covered in press releases in this issue. 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. Fingers crossed the publisher likes it. www.freewebs.com/annareiers/
Emma Meredith (Marit’s daughter), our photographer for the cover image, has had her work published in a couple of anthologies. She has an eye for detail and often captures what the eye might miss. With a 4 month old baby son, she’s going to have her hands full for the foreseeable future, but hopes to pursue a career in photography later.
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 lives with his wife and crazy West Highland White called Max, on the edge of the moors northeast of Manchester.
"Bus pass looming nearer, but still waiting to grow up. Still happy writing anything from poetry to non fiction, but probably enjoy short stories best. Back living in Scotland after years of wandering. Publications range from The Lady to Dogs monthly and numerous times online." Patsy Goodsir
June Gundlack lives in Essex with her husband. She has had a number of articles, reader stories, and letters published in magazines and national papers, winning a few prizes along the way. June is a member of a writers' forum and is currently writing a novel aimed at young teens.
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'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.
Meg Kingston is blond, forty-something and lives in South Wales with her husband Martin and a grey and white cat called Smotyn. Describing books as her passion, Meg runs a reading group and reviews books for several magazines. She ghostwrites factual material and runs creative writing workshops for various societies and local libraries. Her writing has appeared in New Scientist, Writers’ Forum, NewBooks Magazine, Hub, New Pathways, Radio Times and other magazines. Her short stories have achieved recognition in a number of competitions and three collections of them are in print. Website: www.JayWalkerWriting.co.uk
Caroline Brazier is a writer with a life long interest in psychology, spirituality, creativity and ethics; threads which have woven together in many different ways through a richly varied career. She has spent many years working as a psychotherapist and in a variety of educational and community based work. She now spends her time organising and teaching on the Amida training programme for therapists, travelling, writing and supporting other aspects of the work of the Amida community. Caroline is a founder member of Amida Order and has lived for the past few years in its spiritual community in Leicester. She is married with three adult children. The Amida Order can be contacted on www.amidatrust.com http://purelandetchings.blogspot.com/ www.buddhistpsychology.info Marilyn Sylvester BA (Hons) is a part-time FE tutor and her first teaching assignment was as a Community Outreach Tutor within her home town of Guisborough, where she was employed by the local college, in collaboration with the University of Teesside, to facilitate a creative writing course. The course mainly attracted established writers and Marilyn says: ‘Whereas I lacked experience, was neither a writer nor established, the challenge fuelled my desire to spend more time writing.’ She then became part of an editorial team that produce a community magazine entitled: Guisborough Life and joined the online Writelink community for writers. She has so far had two poems published and been paid. Some of her poems have also been shortlisted. She also won our first poetry competition here in The Pages. After spending his twenties travelling the world, Marc Latham studied history and communications studies at university, and graduated with a PhD in 2005. He has since been building a freelance writing career from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website, and has had several articles published. This month, Booklocker is set to publish an ebook memoir about his first travel around Europe and the MiddleEast, including time spent amongst the 1980s Worker-Traveller communities that nomadically followed the seasonal work. Contact: marc@greenygrey.co.uk - www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog
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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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.
Sarah James is an Oxford University modern languages graduate and former newspaper journalist. The prize-winning poet and fiction writer has been widely published in literary magazines and newspapers including Orbis, Raw Edge, the Guardian online and Poetry Nottingham (forthcoming). She also has poems/short stories in Leaf Books, Legend Press, Earlyworks and Second Light Publications' anthologies. The 33 year old currently lives in Worcestershire, England, with her husband and two young children. When she's not reading or writing, she's most likely to be found helping at her older son's school, chasing his brother round the park, frightening other swimmers with her mad sprints up and down the pool or doing the most uncoordinated belly dancing you've ever seen! Her website is at http://sarah-james.co.uk .
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.
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The Pages
Editorial
Spring is my favourite time of year, although I find something special about every season. We have had a little snow here in South Wales this winter. Not a lot (but to listen to the news you’d think we were approaching another ice age – fast), just enough to make me feel nostalgic about the winters of my childhood, when I lived in Norway. We have chosen a couple of poems reflecting the winter, and also a few reflecting the glorious spring. Kristina (Stina) had some good news, albeit five months late: she won a competition in the online and print magazine ‘The View From Here’. The story ‘Surrounded’ was started by Mike French (who also wrote the ending), and contributors continued the story with online submissions. The story was published in last November’s printed version of the magazine. The contributors were Mike French, Jane Turley, Kristina Meredith, Scripter, Kathleen Maher, Rufus, Lisa Holden, Aussie Cynic and Madison Richards, with Kristina as the winner. Her prize was three signed books: The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore by Paul Burman , Cry of the Justice Bird by Jon Haylett and Fat Tuesday by Gary Davison and below is Kristina’s winning entry: I let out a sigh as I let my head find the scrap of cloth anchored with a thousand hooks. I find myself beginning to float away, but she pulls me back – holds me back. Is she my anchor? If she is then I’ve stalled, thousands of miles above the rocks and earth – the only way is down. I turn the pages, but I am barely able to recall a word. She said he has my eyes, I don’t remember hers. I think they were blue… or grey. They may have been large, staring and captivating or small and glassy like a baby doll. Laughter rises up from the front of the plane and punctures my thoughts. It’s quickly extinguished - by a parents well practiced glare – I imagine. I remember her laughter, riotous, ridiculous – absent in the end. Should I be thinking about him? Should I wonder what his laughter would sound like? I don’t of course. Blood and bone, that’s my contribution, His laughter will be of her making, not mine. The clouds separate briefly to form cotton-framed windows, puddles of black tar threaded with floating tails of lace. Too much time and oceans of resentment have passed between us now. Congratulations and well done, Kristina! Congratulations to Su Laws Baccino, too, on the publication of ‘Birthrights’ (see Press Release), her novella. We have a copy for the best short story in this issue’s competition. Another interesting new publication is Caroline Brazier’s ‘Guilt: An Exploration’, and we have an in-depth press release with a short excerpt in this issue. Thank you to all our contributors, and keep the submissions coming! Enjoy the read.
Marit
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The Pages
Submissions
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. Times New Roman, font 12 point, preferred. An opinion piece (or call it a ‘rant’) would be good, too – and we’d like to see book reviews and extracts. Humour is always welcome. If you have an idea for a series for future issues, we would welcome suggestions – and we would also like to see some illustrations. In short, we’ll consider all suggestions and contributions that come our way. We cannot offer payment as of yet, but aim to do so in the future, depending on incoming revenue.
COMPETITION: This month we are running a short story competition. The prize is a copy of Su Laws Baccino’s ‘Birthrights’ a tale set in Italy, whetting the appetite for travelling while telling a very good story (we’re not giving anything away, but see the press release for an excerpt). The theme is Travelling North. North of where is up to you, depending on your starting point. What is your reason for the journey? Where are you going? Short story, maximum 1000 words. One prize: £15 + a copy of 'Birthrights', by Su Laws Baccino for the best story. The competition is free to enter. All entries (and any queries) should be sent to maritmeredith@aol.com by the 31st of May.
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The Pages
Results
As promised, here are the runner up entries for our Short Story and Poetry competition: Night Spirit Fairy Tale
I wish I hadn’t been there. Wish I hadn’t seen what I did. It spoiled everything and now…. Well, nothing will ever be the same. It was just a tragic error and one that I know could have been avoided.
It happened on the night the three hags were twisted, and frozen forever, into trees. I was just sitting in my tree as usual, watching for food, minding my own business. I know I could have gone to the field but I had a lazy mood on, might have been so different otherwise. I wish I …
That’s the problem see. WISHES! That night when the moon asked for one on the Wish Constellation, there was a bad spirit abroad who watched the whole thing and he stole some of the magic. Not a lot of it you understand but enough to make a difference to how it all happened. That’s why those trees never grow a leaf, he took the last bit that was good. I mean no one wants the hags to be erm… not useful shall we say. No, but by him taking that last bit he managed to be able to change himself to create any image he wanted. Just enough.
You see he had been watching the Night Spirit. How he’d hated all the goodness, a bit of jealousy there if you ask me… No, I know you aren’t asking me, I’m telling you that’s right , I am telling. Ahum! Well he took the image of the Night Spirit and that night he stole a dream too. He’d seen him dancing with the lovely young ladies from the big house and had worked out that he was a creature of habit… Not like me of course. I work by surprise and… ok, ok I KNOW. Well, being the nasty guy that he was, he wanted a piece of the action and so he turned up, looking every bit as handsome as the Night guy. He knocked at the window the same as he had seen him do and before I knew it, the girl had walked out into the moonlight and the two of them were dancing on the grass. Everything might have been fine but for the Night Spirit turning up a bit early and catching him. At first they just glared at each other but then they started to argue. Well that did it, didn’t it! The spell was broken. Night and Nasty fought but Nasty never played fair and he held 8
onto the girl with a knife at her throat. The girl fell to the floor, unable to walk. Not understanding what was going on and thinking she was playing a trick upon him, Nasty became angry. Drawing a silver knife, he plunged it deep into her heart and, not wanting to hang around, he vanished!
Night Spirit was distraught, he tried to carry her back to her room but without that last bit of magic, it was impossible, he’d lost his strength. He had managed to drag her back to the edge of the forest and there he lay her down on a bed of soft leaves and covered her with them as best as he could. He stroked her golden hair and sobbed a tear or two. They found her next morning. There were policemen, dogs, you name it, all over the place. They couldn’t find a mark on her. Magic, you see, is potent, very potent but invisible to mortals. No one could understand how she got there and who had covered her up so carefully.
I sat watching them in my tree. I even tried to tell them who, whoo but they don’t seem to understand me. Then, a few days later I heard them talking about the post mortem, heart failure they said, but I knew different. They never did find out, I knew they wouldn’t, nor could they have seen the silver tears on her cheek. They might have known then I am sure. I suppose one good thing came out of it, they made the home more secure. Poor things, they were all there getting a bit of a break, you know respite care. It had been such a happy place before that and now the last piece of magic is gone, they seem much sadder and lost now.
I am their watcher now. Every night between twelve and one o’clock I sit and watch for them. If Mr Nasty Guy is about I warn them. ‘Whoo Whoo woo. You, you, you.’ He doesn’t come so much now, but Night Spirit comes, he watches and watches but without that bit of magic they cannot see him. He blames himself and every night he watches them as they peep through their dreams. One day, one day when the moon has found the right time, she will make another wish and will restore it all. I am sure of that but wish constellations only line up every seven years. It will be a while yet. Then he will come again and all he has to do is to catch the tail end of a dream and wish for it to grow into something beautiful again.
I will know when it happens. Those three trees will grow leaves again. They will always be trees but at least they will learn to have some use. Only then will dreams will be safe and the nightmares finally over.
© Marie Fullerton 9
The Night Spirit Night after night they watched him jealously as he drew many girls from their beds. He showed them a clearing in woods nearby And they danced wherever he led. The three old hags muttered together, most heartless, the things that they said, but the moon watched their callous behaviour, heard their wishes for each young girl dead. The girls had all left their prisons their wheelchairs, the callipers cold. The moon was their reason for smiling and Night Spirit, his heart full of gold. He’d swirl in with the mist and entrance them Sweep them in movements divine And they danced in the moonlit shadows in flowing dresses so fine. They skipped through the woods in the clearing feeling the dew on their feet, they had no care for their shackles just then they needed no crutches in sleep. The watchers grew bitter and twisted, their shoulders were hunched and obscene. The fingers that pointed their envy became bony and gnarled and so thin. Still the moon watched them and waited, She knew when the moment was right, at a wink from the Wish constellation she granted the hags their delight. Their huddle became frozen forever, their poses captured in wood and as trees grew around their twisted forms the hags became statues for good. Forever now they could watch him and whisper as much as they liked but not a leaf will grow upon them, their branches stay twisted and spiked. They made a mistake passing judgement where nothing is as it seems. For the riches they envied in moonlight Were somebody’s precious dreams.
© Marie Fullerton Barrett
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The Pages
Short Story
Going Home She looked around, nothing had really changed, a coat of paint on the old place and an almost new car in the drive - but aside from that... She went to get her bags from the boot, but stopped herself. Looking around at the village, encircled and shaded from the world by the ancient Beech woods, she felt the sudden insatiable urge to find the girl she had left behind. She put off the inevitable, to wade through the warm and muddied waters of her memories for just a few minutes more. She walked up the leafy lane, past Mrs Jones' gate; wooden, worn, but still there, hanging on. What would she say to the Mercedes and the designer shoes? The towering sycamore still stood guard on the corner, dappling the sunlight onto the lawn. She remembered dancing under a cold hose pipe, in the warm summer sun with Mrs Jones’s grandchildren. Mrs Jones sat on the rickety veranda, snoozing in the shade, woken only when the struggling, skinny green serpent broke loose from Mathew’s grip. The tiny village green sat in front of a row of chocolate box cottages. It had been the place for impromptu picnics, hand stands and cartwheels. It had even served as a stage for an improvised performance to a generous neighbourhood audience. She rounded the corner and there it was. She could feel the air cool as she approached it, nothing but the stealthiest streaks of light penetrated the thick canopy. It had been more than twenty years, but still she felt the icy fingers lift the hair at the back of her neck. It was time to face them; she turned back toward home. She passed the tiny scrap of a green, always cruelly edged with a bank of stinging nettles in the summer. She remembered how her indignation stung far worse than the nettles, when she found her self face down in them courtesy of the mighty Mathew. She remembered the earthy green smell, the welts that lasted for a week - or so it seemed. And the humiliation of her skirt up around her waist, knickers on view to the world, lasting a whole lot longer. She remembered the bare branches of the sycamore standing sorrowful and sodden on greyscale days, just as she had. Waiting outside the locked door, until a parent turned up from the pub, or local doss house. She remembered the summer sun being lost behind Mrs Jones’s black cloud. Mathew had blamed her for his grandmother’s cold shower; so she had chased her out of the garden showering her with shame. Her parent’s daughter – even Mathew had never said anything so cruel. Mrs. Jones had a quick temper, and a vicious tongue, but she would always repent - at her own leisure of course. Still she envied Mathew, and his sisters. Mrs Jones was always there; sat at her kitchen table in floods of onion tears, on the veranda watching through half closed eyes, or bunioned feet up on the sofa in front of the fire. Always there.
© Kristina Meredith 11
The Pages
Poetry
Cold kills I like the winter: cold kills germs, the temptations of your bare flesh, long goodbyes.
The invisible becomes visible: our breath in the air, trees' sharp edges, gaps between roof tiles.
I like the winter: cold kills old loves so new ones can grow.
ŠSarah James (real name Sarah Leavesley) Email: lifeislikeacherrytree@yahoo.com
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The Pages
Poetry
FUR HAT It's not here yet, the snow we've heard about for days. Why is it such an issue? It's winter isn't it? Should snow not fall? Wake me up if I've been sleeping, dreaming of sunnier climes, while the dog's bowl freezes over. I'll dig out the fur hat, the one that's different, just in case. © Patsy Goodsir
And in contrast…
SPRING Here is sweet youth, custodian of the Spring, escaped from hungry Winter's gaunt estate, to calm wild winds, and angry storms abate. Pale sunshine in the heavens is offering to banish March's bite and suffering, and call up nature's urge to procreate, This is Child Spring, symbol of innocence, born to her mother Earth in chilling rain, born to delight. She comes dancing down the lane where sunlight dapples; leaves grow green and dense, ten thousand blossoms fill the air with scents; there goes old Winter, Spring has come again. © Rosa Johnson. 13
The Pages
Little Oak
The Garden at Little Oak: 3
Witch Hazel
Mahonia
Snowdrops
Christmas Roses
(Helebores) The garden looks rather desolate at the moment. We live above water meadows and marshes and the water table seems to have nearly reached us. The lane is flooded and the garden drains are filling fast. The early part of January was dry with lots of lovely crisp frosty mornings and sunny days under blue skies but recently there have been several spells of one or two dry days followed by three or more wet ones, though temperatures have remained lower than is usual for us at this time of the year. We had –5° one night. There are some encouraging signs of spring though. Bulbs are showing their green shoots everywhere, much more convincingly than the economy! Aconites, yellow as buttercups and snowdrops, pristine and white are out. We like the simplest forms though there are some double, heavy headed ones growing wild in the lane. Banks a little way from the river Meon have a splendid cover of snowdrops every year. Witch hazel is flowering and giving off its delicate perfume. Polyanthuses of all colours are in bloom in all the sheltered borders and haven’t stopped flowering all through the winter, despite the cold weather. We have primroses as well but they must be split carefully to retain them in the unadulterated form. They easily cross pollinate with the more colourful forms so that plants from seed are no longer pure.
Aconites and Snowdrops
Primroses
Garden birds have been visiting the feeders by the dozen. Great tits, blue tits, coal tits and long tailed tits are probably the most frequent callers and we notice that only the long tailed tits don’t have an obvious pecking order. They all feed together without the frenzied spats of other birds. Seven or eight at a time, on one feeder. We also have a regular lesser spotted woodpecker, known as Mr LSWP, an occasional nuthatch, green finches, chaffinches and the usual run of blackbirds and robins. Song thrushes appear as soon as any ground is turned or new compost from the bins is spread. We have recently introduced two hedgehogs into the garden. We collected them from the RSPCA shelter in a plasticised cardboard box, which became their temporary shelter. Our instructions were to feed them dog food until they hibernated. We’d know this had occurred when they stopped eating the food. 14
Some time later the house, fortunately is still standing. It was raised on boards to keep it off the wet ground and covered in a folded bin bag and a layer of leaves to keep it dry. Hedgehog Villa is quite a cosy abode and they seemed to be enjoying being fed and watered as well, at first but they have stopped eating now. We knew one of them was exploring the garden because he passed my husband one night when he was out with the dog. She gets very excited about the new smells but hasn’t attempted to go near the villa. Their ‘social worker’ from the RSPCA has been to assess the situation. He thinks they are hibernating either in the box or in a pile of leaves nearby. We’ve had a little snow. About 2 centimetres. It lasted longer than last year when we had 6cm, which was gone by lunchtime. As late January became early February more plants began to flower. Mahonia’s bright yellow flowers and dark spiky leaves have a pleasant perfume. Other varieties, which aren’t as common as the one pictured have stronger, heavier scents. The hardiest variety of the Helebores is the pale green one, which flowers before the white pink and mauve varieties, known erroneously as Christmas roses. Few of them ever flower in time for Christmas. We have a few out now but they aren’t as vigorous. Now well into February Daffodils are showing yellow tips on their buds. Beautiful, when multifarious varieties flower in patches all over the garden but they will in time look ragged and shabby. Too many to dead-head and with leaves which fall flat and turn brown it is always tempting to chop them back before six weeks after the flowers die. If the leaves remain the bulb is able to build strength for flowering next year. Unusual it may be but one of the lawns has already been cut. We always have winter flowering Pansies in planters. They are late showing their true colours this year having suffered in the cold damp climate. Crocus bulbs have done well in pots and in the old Victorian jardinière, which has appeared in family photographs for several generations. Birds are already pairing off. When there are two robins in the garden who are not fighting be sure they are male and female. I think we can safely say, spring is nearly here. There was a flock of goldfinches in one of the birch trees earlier this week. If the weather doesn’t turn cold again the hedgehogs will soon be showing up again. Things have been happening in our cold greenhouse and on our not-so-cold spare bedroom windowsill too. Cinerarias are flowering and make lovely gifts for friends who visit. They are broad leaved daisy like flowers with multiple stems of various combinations of purple, mauve, pink and white blooms. They are about 10” high. Cauliflower seedlings have been raised and are now in single cells in the greenhouse, Some good broad bean plants are also there ready to be planted out with leeks just showing through. More than a twelve month cycle for these, we haven’t finished eating last years crop yet. Land has been prepared ready for a new bed of raspberries. The old canes had begun to look rather tired though we had a decent crop last year. The pond remains netted to keep the heron at bay but despite this, one of the fish hasn’t surfaced this year. Much smaller than the others it had remained competitive until its demise when it presumably gave up the unequal struggle. © Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Out Now
Presenting Su Laws Baccino’s newly published novella, Birthrights. Su is also known as Dibley, and is already known to a few of you. I read the novella as she did the re-writes and it's a really good read - edge of your seat kind - set in Italy and totally authentic (she lived there for years). Now available on Amazon – or if you ask in your local WH Smiths or Waterstones, they might order it for you – and start stocking it.
MAX BERESFORD's life is thrown into chaos when his estranged partner puts their two children on a flight back to the UK. She fails to make further contact. Worried, Max employs private detectives to trace her. He travels to Italy and ends up doing the job himself. In the UK his motherin-law goes missing for a night and burns the Bolognese sauce. His mother meanwhile takes charge of her grandchildren. Back in Italy a group of bewildered individuals are gathered in the Maritime Alps. They are joined by the press, the police, and an extremely important public figure. Plausible connections and coincidences abound. Paperback: 224 pages £6.99 Publisher: YouWriteOn (December 8, 2008) ISBN-10: 1849232105 ISBN-13: 978-1849232104 Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk/ http://www.amazon.com/ http://www.barnesandnoble.com/ Su’s website: http://sulawsbaccino.webs.com and blogging at http://sulawsbaccino.webs.com/apps/blog/
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The Pages
Short Story
Sylvie’s Inheritance I noticed the broken plank on Dad’s shed when I re-opened the chicken coop after the storm. He always kept it locked, and I couldn’t resist the lure of forbidden secrets. I checked that Dad wasn’t in sight and ducked behind the shed to investigate. The gap was just wide enough for me to wriggle through with a little effort. I’d become a woman that year, and my budding body wouldn’t slip through narrow gaps like the child I had been so recently. My eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The rafters were draped with dusty nets; old cork floats hung from walls garlanded with cobwebs. Without knowing why, I found my hand reaching for a small crate on a shelf and lifting it down. A single word had been burnt into the lid – Ronat – my Mother’s name. Was this something of hers? She’d never had many possessions, and I couldn’t understand why she’d have kept a box locked away in Dad’s shed, where she never came. I hadn’t seen Dad down here since she sickened and died, either. I slid the wooden lid off and gasped. It was the finest suede I’d ever seen; so delicate, so lightly tanned, it felt like water in my hands. I lifted it up and shook it out, revealing the whole skin of some animal, large enough to be a cloak. I carried it to where dim daylight seeped through the broken wall. A little rain blew through the gap and onto the suede, making it quiver like a live thing in my hands. When I squeezed outside again, it felt only natural to wrap the cloak around me. Avoiding our cottage for the moment, I made for the jetty where Pinniped knocked gently against its fenders. Sitting on the rough planks, my legs dangling, the suede cloak wrapped around my shoulders, I was almost hypnotised by the waves that bobbed gently in the aftermath of the storm. How inviting they looked. I heard a shout and turned to see Dad running towards me. “Sylvie, no!” he repeated. “Not like your mother!” Startled, I stood and started to walk towards him, wrapping the cloak around me, but then I hesitated as if something was drawing me away. “Don’t do this, Sylvie! You don’t have to be the same as your mother,” he cried. Nearer now, I could see the sweat on his lined face and the panic in his eyes. I clutched the cloak as I wavered, then my feet slipped from under me, and I tumbled into the deep, grey water. I struggled to orient myself, hampered by the cloak which seemed more alive than ever, wrapping itself around my legs. The current slammed me against something, knocking the breath from my 17
lungs. Momentarily stunned, I hung motionless, not struggling, not even sure which way the surface was. The cloak settled itself softly around me. Then I remembered Dad running, and swam towards the dappled light. My head broke the surface and I could see him standing on the jetty, looking straight at me; but he didn’t seem to see me. I tried to raise my arm and wave, but it wouldn’t lift out of the water. Instead, I surface-dived to swim to him. This time the water seemed to welcome me into itself. I dived deeper into the kindly depths, seeing colours I’d never noticed before. I twisted and rolled, afloat and comfortable like a baby deep inside its mother’s skin. I’d been underwater for several minutes, but I didn’t need to breathe yet. Then there were more faces in the water, other seals appearing out of the greyness, swimming round, inspecting me. We surfaced together, a long way from the jetty. I could barely make out the human figure standing there, before we dived back into the grey world and swam out to sea.
© Meg Kingston
The Story’s Story Sylvie’s Inheritance is one of the author’s favourites. Written almost without pause in a writing workshop and barely edited, it must be one of the fastest-written stories ever. It won the inaugural New Horizonz fiction competition in 2006 and was published in Meg’s second collection “The Dragon Bridge and other stories” on St David’s Day, 1st March, 2007. Since then it has appeared in two anthologies, won another competition, featured in an exhibition at Cardiff’s Norwegian Church and been presented as a guest work by the Midnight Storytellers.
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The Pages
Poetry
River Music
A banjo twang from either side bisects a river’s flow. It shows that froggy folk live here and breed. To play their notes A- flat and tuned in tune with others of the waters rush, Poseidon over all.
Š Myra King
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The Pages
Article
MP/GP What’s The Difference? By David Robinson
I was interested to read that MPs are worried about the public’s perception of them. Why? It’s never bothered them before and yet the public have always thought of them as opinionated, self-centred, egotistical and greedy. And their about as effective as our council’s footpath gritting. In other word, not at all, because our council, despite what one Westminster idiot claimed a in the throes of the heaviest weather, didn’t grit the footpaths. They never do. Let me give you an example. About two years back, MPs were whining that they wanted pay parity with GPs, who, the politicians claim, earn over £100,000 a year. How many times have I needed my GP in the last ten years? Too many to count. He sorted out my broken wrist, broken foot (twice) counselled me through my brother’s unexpected death, dealt with my blood pressure problems, cholesterol levels, sorted out an exercise regime for me. And this was on top of all the routine matters, like annual health checks, HGV licence medicals, producing reports for employers after a long illness. He doesn’t preach, he encourages. I know I smoke too much, but he simply advises me to do something about it. He doesn’t threaten me with sanctions if I don’t. He is always there when I need an appointment, and if he isn’t, there’s someone else who can deal with the problem. When our local hospital failed me a short while ago, he picked up the ball and ran with it. No whining, no whinging about overwork. He just did it. He’s always cheerful and it’s rare that I wait longer than 10 minute after an appointment time. In that same ten years, how many times have I needed my MP? Once. In 2003, I needed him to sort out a problem with my local council. I wrote to him and got a reply from his secretary saying he was away on holiday. She assured me he would be in touch the minute he returned. Six years on, I’m still waiting. (If you’re reading this, Phil, don’t bother, I sorted it out myself.) It’s easy for politicians to claim that this was an oversight. My GP doesn’t overlook anything. Three years ago, I was in his surgery for a chest problem when I mentioned that it had affected my hearing. He checked for wax. Clear. “I’ll refer you to audiology,” he said, and I forgot about it. He didn’t. A month later, I had hearing tests which identified noise induced hearing loss and a couple of months after that, I had my hearing aids. So if I compare the two, which one is worth the £100,000 a year? No prizes for getting the right answer. My GP would be cheap at half the price. My MP isn’t worth a fiver. So why does this all come to mind now? It’s all about the shocking problems we’ve had with the weather and the credit crunch and all the rest of it. Some mouthpiece at Westminster said keeping salt/grit in the quantities needed to fight the winter was too expensive, while at the same time RBS, of which the taxpayer owns 68%, is ready to shell out £1 billion in bonuses. But we should take heart. Gordon is angry about it.
© David Robinson 2009
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The Pages
Out Now
The Review Another Haircut?
Review by Marilyn Sylvester
The anthology entitled: Another Haircut? sprung into life as a challenge that was met by this website’s www.freewebs.com/annareiers enthusiastic contributors. The intent and purpose of the publication is to bring a smile to your face and donate all proceeds to: The Children's Chronic Arthritis Association The inspirational idea behind the book was borne by the editor, Marit Meredith, who was thrilled after receiving a Lulu Shout newsletter, informing her that Another Haircut? was in the spotlight as part of Red Nose Day. This down-to-earth compilation of hair-raising experiences about – well – hair, quickly materialised into a variety of poems and stories. The content reveals some strong, grassroots writing that bears all the hallmarks of nostalgic, yet cringe worthy reminiscences - enough to make your toes curl, or should that be hair? Portrayed on the front cover for example, is a little girl with an upside-down bowl placed on her head, waiting for the inevitable scissor-hand sounds of: snip, snip, snicking. The fatalistic and, for some of us, memorable results of those homely, DIY methods is comically and endearingly encapsulated on the back cover - shame about the fringe! To say they were resourceful times and that professional hairdressers can do it better, well maybe they can at a price! I Don’t Have Bad Hair Days, by DW: is a succinct and humorous account of how to avoid paying for a haircut. ‘I’m not mean but…’ by RJ, is questioning in rhythmical verse: ‘Why should I pay the same as them what’s got a lot to cut, my curls have gone, my pate is brown and shiny as a nut?’ The Barber Shop Quartet by T Belshaw, is a tongue-in-cheek, wittily rhymed poem, which encapsulates the characters from a tell-tale, bawdy narration that is guaranteed to leave you chuckling. Bog Brush, My Self-Inflicted Haircuts, Bald is Beautiful, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow: are just some of the titles featured. To admit that you have never experienced, or that you cannot lay claim to identifying with any of them, is a bit like shamefacedly admitting you have never lived! The anthology: Another Haircut? is funny, nostalgic, noteworthy, creative and as well as having the potential to inspire writers to produce more of the same, in my book, that is a small price to pay. Why don’t you have a peek and see for yourself at this address: http://www.lulu.com/content/6125767
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The Charity To give you an idea of what The Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association is about, we include their Mission Statement below: ‘The Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association is the leading charity run by parents and professionals to provide help and information for children with arthritis, their families and professionals involved in their care. We offer emotional and practical support to maximise choices and opportunities and raise awareness of childhood arthritis in the community.’ www.ccaa.org.uk Email: info@ccaa.org.uk The Facts (taken from their leaflet): ‘Arthritis is not just a disease of old people. Unfortunately about one in a thousand children in the UK suffer from Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis. It can strike at any age and take one of several different forms, but what is similar about the disease is the pain and frustration that affects the child, and the feeling of disbelief that affects the whole family. Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association is a leading national registered charity.’ Registered Charity no: 1004200
(The first cheque from the proceeds of the sales of Another HairCut? has been sent.)
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The pages
Out Now
Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Short Stories by Marit Meredith Tea Time Morsels: A Collection of Everyday Stories This collection of stories is largely based on the everyday, although there are some exceptions. Some have been published before, in collaborative anthologies written in aid of charities, some on the Internet, one or two in magazines. ‘Sudanese Cries’ was used in Woman Alive, a Christian women’s magazine, as a basis for a charity drive for the Sudanese (my fee went to a charity working out there). Many have come about because of challenges and prompts of various kinds. There will be more morsels to come. (80 pages )
Paperback book : £7.99 Download now available: £3.50 http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback_book/tea_time_morsels_a_collection_of_short_stories/6364475
Visit my new website where I blog the ins and outs (or should that be ups and downs?) of self publishing etc. www.thehouseofmeredithpublishing.webs.com
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The Pages
The Review
The Review by Bob Scotney:
Tea Time Morsels Reading this book is rather like being invited to a tea party and being faced with plates of biscuits and fancy cakes. I’m sure you will find your favourites among the collection of 36 short stories by Marit Meredith but the difficult part is to choose which one to pick first. The collection is described by Marit as stories ‘based on the everyday, although there are some exceptions.’ I defy anyone not to be moved by ‘Sudanese Cries’ told by a child who survived the burning of villages and the killing of the inhabitants. Not an everyday event for us, but unfortunately very real for the child. This story was used as a basis for a charity drive for the Sudanese. There are around ten pieces of flash fiction in the book. Top of my list would be the seemly strange title of ‘Give Me A Break (1)’ in which Doubting Thomas challenges you to see his point of view over his questioning whether his Master had risen from the dead. A number of the stories explore family relations often from a wife’s point of view. The conflicts involved are often subtle and understated but situations even men would recognise – if they are honest. The flash story ‘Snowdrops’ describes the thoughts of a pregnant woman while ‘The Letter’ explores the feelings of a mother and father whose ‘special’ child is about to go to school. ‘Sofia’ deals with the effect of abduction on a young girl and how she tries to protect her sister from the same fate. ‘Where Are My Keys?’ and ‘The Mirror Image’ relate to problems as people age. Marit has covered a wide range of human emotions in more than just these pieces. If I were force to pick my favourites, after ‘Sudanese Cries’ they would have to be ‘The Walk’ which a woman takes at night, and ‘The Ticket’ about a lottery winner and her unemployed husband. Take a look at Marit’s book at http://www.lulu.com/browse/preview.php?fCID=6364475 Choose your own favourite story; I’m sure you will find more than one. Bob Scotney www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/bob_scotney
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The Pages
Short Story
THE RAMBLINGS OF A WRINKLY "It was only after clicking 'send' that Robson realised what he had done…" 'Bloody Hell! What a racket!' he exclaimed. Klaxons, sirens, alarm bells, and a long trumping blast rent the air simultaneously. From the window he saw the shed roof opened and Robson's grandfather sitting in his armchair shot into the air at a mind-blowing speed leaving a trail of green vapour behind him. The old man had hoped for family approval before count down but Robson had put paid to that; inadvertently he'd launched poor Grampy into orbit without warning. Robson had given Grampy his old computer, got him started and left him to play with it. He never dreamed he'd master it. The calculations he showed him seemed ludicrous; rambling fantasies of an old man he thought. Now through his complacency he'd sent him to his Waterloo. He should have given him more of his time. Grampy had told Robson his plans but he'd paid no heed though he assured him he was serious. Harold Bogg had left the door of his study/bedroom open and the computer running, so that he could make detailed settings on the lap-top in the shed. It was a question of coordinating weight, pressure, thrust and wind speed. His calculations this morning were encouraging. He discovered wind speed was rising rapidly after an extra cellulosial fuel intake. He scribbled a few calculations down on his pad. 'Harold my boy, I think you've cracked it. You have created the inverquilibrium required to give the exact blastrometric curve of the projected orbital passage. Pencil behind his ear he sat back in his chair to fasten the seat belt. Was this as near as he'd get to a blast off? It was then Robson clicked 'send'. He'd seen an e-mail ready to send on Grampy's computer and bingo! It was as though all Hell had been let loose. He went to the window and saw his beloved Grandfather disappearing over the church and round the lofty tower block, which stood at the end of the town pier. He grabbed the telescope, and focussed on the soaring pensioner who was giving amazed diners, in The Tower-Top Restaurant, a regal wave as he passed. Grampy had told Robson he'd do twenty three orbits and if his calculations were correct he'd be back in time to join the family for dinner, — at the very latest for puddies. Why hadn't he paid more attention? He'd taken him for an old fool enjoying computer games, and left him to it. 'Time to go and look at the lap-top before he comes round again. Maybe I'll discover something useful.' Grampy had said he had a device for landing, but would it work? In Robson’s opinion the back garden was far too small. He rushed downstairs. The door and the roof of the shed were open. The display on the screen was totally incomprehensible. A line of blinking wingdings. After highlighting the code he keyed in Grampy's font. Got it! It now read, Cock Up! Press Recall. Recall? There was no 'Recall' key on computers. Clearly Grampy was into special functions. As he rushed back indoors, the armchair sped over the house again, a thousand feet up. His mother called. 'Robson, Grandad's gone out in his slippers again.' But more important things were on Robson's mind. 'Robson, come quickly.' 25
'Coming, Mum,' he said, vacantly. He consulted his computer text books – nothing. He went to Grampy's screen, turned up My Documents and scanned the list. 'That's it! Landings. He opened the folder and found a file labelled 'F keys' Following the routine to arrive at Recall he re-programmed F7 and pressed it. Grampy must be on his twentieth circuit now. If power fails his descent could be imminent. 'Robson, something's falling out of the sky. It looks like your Grandad?' She flashed out into the garden. Grampy was indeed drifting down, still sitting in his armchair, a golfing umbrella in each hand. He saw them. He couldn't wave but was coming in right on target; a beaming smile lit his face. Robson's mother shouted at the old man. 'I told you not to wear your new slippers down the garden, Dad.' The chair, with Grampy in it, landed, softly as thistledown. 'Oh, Grampy. I'm sorry.' Robson hugged the old man. 'Hang on, old chap, let me undo my seatbelt.' 'These zip-up slippers are great Dolly,' he said, 'Perfect for unexpected flights. My feet are as warm as toast.' He grinned at Robson triumphantly, 'I said I could do it.' Turning to his daughter, Dolly, he asked her if dinner was ready.
Š Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Out Now
Guilt An Exploration Caroline Brazier Publication date: February 2009 Available from Amazon £7.99 Guilt is a journey; an exploration into those areas of life which both fascinate and repel us. Caroline Brazier shows how through the weaving together of an account of a group of young people, fine grained analysis of the emotional and ethical basis of guilt, and illustration she drew from a variety of life circumstances, the reader is drawn into the complexity of a subject which troubles many people in the modern world. She deals sensitively with some of the most challenging areas of human experience, confronting the reader with situations in which there are no easy answers. Yet in writing Caroline retains a joy in life. At times both humorous and emotive, she reveals the beauty of the everyday and the pathos of the ordinary. A book that crosses boundaries, this is one of the few on the topic which will have you reading into the small hours of the morning, eager to discover the secret worlds of the characters whose lives illustrate its themes.
“This is an extraordinary book which brings a novelist’s art to the exploration of humanity’s most pervasive and complex affliction. It is a spiritual thriller which defies categorisation and is compulsively readable.” Brian Thorne, Emeritus Professor of Counselling, University of East Anglia; Lay Canon, Norwich Cathedra Caroline's previous publications are; Buddhist Psychology, Buddhism on the Couch and The Other Buddhism (O Books). A short excerpt, taken from chapter six: Saturday morning, Joanne was up early. It had been raining in the night and the sky was grey and heavy. Her parents were in the kitchen, sitting over breakfast. Her father had the morning paper spread out in front of him and the radio news droned on in the background, a male voice monotonous and sober, talking on and on about the election and something called Vietnam. Why were adults interested in such boring stuff? Michael and Ian were still in their bedroom. Joanne could hear them squabbling over the Scalextric set. Squabbling was a hobby for them. Who had the blue car or the yellow one, the inside or outside track, who had won the lap, all became sources of contention and bickering. Usually it stayed verbal, descending into name calling and abuse, but sometimes it got physical, the two boys pushing each other and rolling over and over on the toy strewn carpet, impaling body parts on sharp corners of Dinky toys, Lego bricks and car track. Usually they were careful not to roll onto the controls and actually break anything. No fight was worth winning that much. But occasionally they would accidentally fall badly onto something that was not sufficiently well engineered for boisterous young males, and a piece of plastic would break or metal would bend, leading to further recriminations. Joanne could smell eggs frying. “Give the twins a shout, will you,” her mother called. “Their breakfast is ready.” Joanne went to the bottom of the stair case and yelled. The voices overhead stopped momentarily as the promise of food registered, then her two brothers came tumbling out of the bedroom door and down the wooden stairs, seating themselves at the table, still squabbling without let up. “Stop that and eat!” their mother chided, putting plates of eggs, bacon and fried bread before them.
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The Pages
Travel Article
Death and Dolce in the Dolomites Italy by Marc Latham Before I ascended into the Dolomites, if somebody mentioned Great War (World War One) stalemates I would only have thought of the Somme, Ypres and other mud and blood filled fields of northern Europe; if someone talked about Great War weather-induced injuries I would presume they were referring to trench-foot; and if they recounted the horrors of Great War winters my mind would visualise soldiers crawling through freezing rain or knee-deep in stagnant water. Yet here I was, in a cramped machine-gun post 8,000 feet up on Lagazuoi in the Italian Dolomites, where ninety years previously the Austrians had defended their Alps front line against Italians who had joined the war on the side of the Entente Powers (led by Britain and Commonwealth countries, Russia and France) against the Central Powers (mainly Germany and Austria-Hungary). The gun was pointed across at what had then been Italian positions; they only seemed a stone-throw away, although there was a hundred foot drop in-between.
Lagazuoi could be enjoyed in the summer sun, but temperatures were still cool to say the least, and in winter it can drop to -30c (-22f); so in the trenches of the Dolomites it was blizzards and frostbite that were the main weather concerns for the Italian and Austrian troops fighting doggedly in the tunnels and peaks of the southern Alps.
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The Dolomites were formed 200 million years ago out of the primeval ocean, and the highest peaks now reach 12,000 feet. They take their name from French mineralogist, Déodat de Dolomieu (17501801), who discovered and defined the unique composition of the stone which gives it a lighter colour than most mountains. I had travelled up to the Dolomites from Reggio Emilia with a local friend I’d met in Africa seven years before. Reggio is the main town in the Emilia-Romagna region of northern Italy, and is a bastion of socialism in a country divided between politically polarised regions; streets are named after left-wing legends such as Lenin, Marx and Che Guevara, and there is a statue in the town celebrating the partisans who fought against Mussolini in World War Two. We travelled north by train, via Bologna and Verona to Brunico. The Bologna train had been packed with people heading to the coast at Rimini; I’d apparently picked an inconvenient time to visit Italy, as the country largely shuts down in August for a national holiday. When we arrived in Brunico it looked and sounded as if we’d crossed into another country: red and white flags abound, the architecture is typical of the central Alps, and German is the primary language as it is in Austria. This is because the region, South Tyrol, was Austrian until the Italian push into the Dolomites during the Great War. As part of the 1915 treaty that brought neutral Italy into the war it was agreed that they should have some Austro-Hungarian regions after the conflict. Although parts of the treaty could not be kept, South Tyrol did become Italian in 1919. From Brunico we took a comfortable bus along country roads that provided great views of lush green valleys and high mountain peaks to the village of Pedraces in the Badia valley for a couple of Euros. We stayed at the Pension Armalia, which was clean and friendly, although the staff didn’t speak English; luckily, my friend provided translation and did all the organising. Breakfast and dinner were included in the price, and provided enough for the day; they were not used to catering for vegetarians so it was mostly egg and cheese dishes for me, but they were always nice and filling. On the first day we bussed it into the bigger village of La Villa, where there is a good tourist office. It was there that I first saw the leaflet for the mountain-top Great War Museum: it looked intriguing and declared itself unique. Three days of hiking amongst impressive peaks and Sound of the Music style meadows later it was time to take a trip back in time to the Great War. We took a bus into La Villa again at about 9am, and then another bus to the ski lift station at the Falzarego Pass. The second bus journey took us to the end of the mountain range that framed one flank of the valley, and when I realised where we were going I was overjoyed; I’d wondered what lay beyond the high natural wall that dominated that side of the panorama, and now I was about to find out. As we wound our way through mountains, forests and Lake Valparola to the 6000 feet Falzarego there were magnificent views down the valley all the way to Pedraces.
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The ski-lift carried us up an additional 2000 feet in altitude, and combined with the wind chill from being on top of an exposed peak it made a noticeable difference to the temperature. I didn’t think there would be much natural life at that altitude, and was therefore surprised to see a flock of birds fly high above us before turning en-masse and heading back down towards the valley below. We made our way over to one of the many crosses that appear on prominent peaks across the mountains in the region, and could see a couple of small lakes further into the range; mountains dominated the horizon for as far as the eye could see. 360 degree reception centre we started to view the open air museum as we descended on a steep and narrow path. The path seems to be the one used during the Great War, as the preserved living quarters and positions of the Austrian troops defending the Lagazuoi Peak are accessible from it as you walk. The soldiers spent two winters guarding the rock in the freezing cold, and it was easy to imagine how relieved the soldiers must have been to escape a third. There were separate quarters for the officers and men, with neither looking comfortable; the only preferential benefits for the officers seemed to be a little more room and a desk. The machine-gun post was claustrophobic and cold, and if you add on the freezing temperatures of winter and being fired at by snipers and heavy artillery then it must have been quite close to what I’d imagine hell would be like if it did ever freeze over. After leaving Lagazuoi we made our way down a track at the bottom of no-man’s-land; looking back up at the Austrian positions we could view them almost as the Italians must have done. All of a sudden the Austrian experience didn’t seem quite as bad, as I’d have preferred to be looking and firing down than up. However, the Italians did have the advantage of launching surprise attacks at the Austrians by tunnelling into the mountain.
The closest I came to relating to the sound of explosions that had disrupted the harmony of the Dolomites ninety years before was being awoken one night by the loudest thunderstorm I’ve ever heard. Before that I’d been thinking how easy it looked to just hike up one of the beautiful peaks. Like war, mountains can look easier to survive than in reality; and when you combine them together, they can provide one of the toughest tests of all.
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If You Go: For an overview about travelling in the region: www.colletts.co.uk/travel_to_the_italian_dolomites.html For accommodation: www.dolomiten-suedtirol.com/altabadia.asp?m=2&s=7 For transport information: www.dolomiti.org/DENGL/welcome.html For information about the Great War museum: www.dolomiti.it/eng/musei/grandeguerra.htm In addition, a search on the Amazon site brings up many books on the Dolomites: www.Amazon.com
Photographs: All photos by Marc Latham.
Contact: marc@greenygrey.co.uk - www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog
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The Pages
Real Life Story
Not the best of mornings It was the usual routine, wake up, look at the clock, wonder why the previous seven hours had sped past so quick. I stood up and stretched, briefly, not wanting to expend too much energy. Pulling the curtains revealed a reasonable day, at least not raining. I grabbed a bath towel and walked to the shower. I imagine about five minutes must have passed with my enjoying the hot water massaging me and then picked up the shampoo bottle. While washing my hair I glanced at the over-flow at the end of the bath, just where the chain for the bath plug is attached. That’s when I noticed it. ‘It’ being a thick black piece of cotton, or at least that’s what I hoped it was. I continued to look and another piece of cotton appeared. I would have considered today to have been lucky if that’s when the cotton appearing stopped, but, it didn’t. A third piece presented itself, and then I knew. The shower was losing its attractiveness, the lovely warm water wasting as I stood there nervously watching…the cotton. A fourth piece appeared, making me gulp, and then scream inwardly, scared of what would happen next. I may as well have screamed my head off, because, a round blob pushed its way through the overflow opening, followed by more pieces of cotton. Yes, arachnid of humungous proportions was staring at me. I wasn’t sure if it was thinking, ‘wow look at that’, or, ‘perhaps I can web it and eat it later’. It certainly looked big enough to do the latter. I carefully grabbed the shower curtain, especially chosen because of its colour – white, and pulled it back. Why did I choose white? It’s because it shows me at a glance if any arachnids are lurking on it. I tried to keep an eye on the arachnid; two of its legs were raised, as if it was waving at me. I did not feel inclined to wave back. I carefully stepped out of the bath and grabbed the towel, tying it close around me and then glanced back to the bath. The arachnid wasn’t at the overflow any more; I carefully looked into the bath, no sign. I looked up and down the white shower curtain, but no sign. I decided to move quickly to the safety of the bedroom, get dried and dressed in fast forward, and then armed with various life support mechanisms (for me) find arachnid. I twisted the towel so the opening was at the front and started to dry bits and pieces. I felt a slight tickle-like feeling on my right thumb and looked down, palpitations started, my breathing became erratic, and arachnid was there, again with two legs raised as if waving at me. A scream merit worthy of an X-rated horror movie escaped. Arachnid was still just sitting, touching my thumb and waving. I glanced at the bedside table; I had an almost finished glass of water. I gulped 32
the last drop. Then, with glass in left hand as arachnid was still caressing my right hand; I pushed the towel to the floor. Arachnid fell with the towel and I lunged forward with my glass and stood it on top of the arachnid. It just stared, and didn’t seem intent on trying its hand, or eight legs, at climbing around the glass. Dressing was very fast, nothing matched, and it was of little importance. I had a major operation ahead of me, getting rid of arachnid. I have a fear of them, but could not kill one for fear that all the spiders in the land would come back and seek revenge. I dried my hair, keeping an eye on the glass. The creature was still there, watching and waiting for whatever was going to be the next chapter its life. Hair now dried, I picked up a piece of card; my intention to slide the card under the glass and then carry card, spider and glass down the stairs and out to the garden to freedom, for the spider. I turned to the glass with a little piece of confidence…which soon disappeared, just as the spider had. I could not believe the spider had managed to lift the glass. My fear was rising, and there was no other way, I had to ask Mr Henry for help. I chose that vacuum cleaner over the brush beating one, to at least give the spider a fighting chance; he would be sucked into the container, and then I could put the whole thing in the garden until help arrived. I grabbed the hose of Mr Henry, turned on the power and then went on a mission to seek out arachnid. Then I spotted it, about a foot away from me. I felt brave with Mr Henry in my hand. I wondered what was going through arachnids mind at that moment; could he be asking, ‘are you my mummy’? It then started to move; this might be the last chance I got, so I put the hose over its body and cringed as I imagined its rather rapid and dusty journey up the hose and into the tank of Mr Henry. For readers not familiar with the Mr Henry physique, it has a hose with a piece that you can turn to increase or decrease the suction power. Open, is less power, closed is full power. I hadn’t realised the vent was open…arachnid found it, how I have no idea. It fell to the ground, presumably dazed. I wondered if spiders had the ability to sneeze, it must have been covered in dust. While becoming very slightly emotional about the possible demise of the creature in front of me, I picked up the glass again. Arachnid had little resistance now; I then slid the cardboard under the glass. I walked down the stairs to the kitchen with Arachnid still inside the glass. It was stirring, a couple of legs rising, was it waving at me? I didn’t know and nor did I really care, I couldn’t hurt it, but neither could I be friends with it. I opened the kitchen door and took the glass balancing on the card out to the garden table. I placed it on the table and then walked back to the kitchen. As I locked the door, I could see the spider, it seemed to be quite active and none the worse for its adventure with me. On checking the glass an hour later, there was no sign of the spider… © June Gundlack 33
The Pages
Poetry
SPRING UPBEAT
Winter is dead, Spring dances on his grave, spellbound by the annual paradox born of his passing. Triumphant, she locks bleak doors and feels no grief, but music craves. Is this the way a daughter should behave? Who cares? She greets the vernal equinox wearing a 'G' string and psychedelic socks, singing discordant requiems on stage. Listen again! Oh, surely you can hear her vibrant songs, rhythmic and very loud; vivacious Spring is young and has no fear, by time's weary convention is not bowed; mourns not her father; neither sheds a tear, but rocks her way to Summer with the crowd.
Š Rosa Johnson
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The Pages
Pick of the Web
IKatFotoGrafix : Ingrid Smith-Johnsen www.ingridsj.110mb.com ingridsj is a website dedicated to photography and digital art. By combining photography with the digital media Ingrid is able to create beautiful pencil sketches in both color and black and white. Eventually there will be a different web site but for now this one will have to do. She uses Adobe Photoshop, Fireworks and Illustrator extensively and can take just about any image and create a digital rendering pleasing to the eye. In addition to the pencil sketches she is also working on watercolors and pastels, so there will be something for anyone’s taste. In addition to her own images she can also use your own images and give you, the client, your own personal piece of digital art. Please visit her site at www.ingridsj.110mb.com Look around and feel free to comment. Most images are her own but several have been donated by friends over the years and some have been purchased. 10% of profit from sales will be donated to The Children’s Chronic Arthritis Association.
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The Pages
D W-B-P
Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist: Limbo is No Place to Be Anna was on the ball yesterday morning (nice change!); up at 6.30 and rearing to go. Trouble was, I wasn’t. I felt decidedly subdued after her fast and furious writing session the night before. I wouldn’t mind if it was me she was working on, but she didn’t give me a second thought. Except for a fleeting moment perhaps, when she plundered my story. I wonder whether she was sorry. I can’t tell. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want some other would-be-protagonist to go through the same on and off existence that has become my lot. Limbo is no place to be. I can vouch for that. A non-existent place for non-existent entities - and me. No, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Unless you count Procrastination, of course. I didn’t appreciate being ripped apart like that. I didn’t think Anna would stoop so low. She’s got plenty of ideas; why does she have to steal what's rightfully mine? Except they are hers really, I suppose. But she still made them part of me - and then took them back. I tell you, it's just not right. Besides, taking chunks out of me like that made me feel weak. I need to regain strength somehow and show her that I’m not a few pieces of scrap paper with scribbled ideas on, to be screwed up and chucked in the waste paper basket after she’s extracted the bits she wants for some other piece of writing. Anna was wide open to receive inspiration this morning - just the right time for me to make my move and get in there for a heart to heart - or a mind to mind - session. She’d had a good night’s sleep (all right for some!) and was receptive. Sod’s law, isn’t it, that I wasn’t up to it? I was no more than a few fleeting thoughts in her mind, but the spark was there. I could feel it. But first she had to activate that virtual world that she insists on being a part of (not that I’m against that; I’m somewhat virtual myself), but boy, did she have problems! I’m beginning to wonder whether I have some rivals for her attention. Anyway, her Internet connection kept freezing up and when she thought she’d finally solved it, it logged her off. I might have had something to do with that, in the past, when I was nothing but a mischievous soul, but now that there’s some substance about me, I don’t resort to that kind of thing (I'm serious!). But, if she keeps stripping me down, I might just revert. Watching her tearing her hair out, as it’s all going wrong, it's obvious that causing trouble isn't the best way of getting her attention. She gets far too agitated. She’s certainly agitated now. I hope it’s not going to rub off. I could do with an injection of positive energy and a chance to reclaim lost ground. I reckon she owes me that much - and more actually, but I’m not really in a position to bargain at the moment. Too weak and feeble. But at least give me my due!
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When she started hitting the delete button, I took a step back and hid behind a virtual curtain. Never thought I'd be a curtain twitcher, but I dare not stay where she might notice me. She could get rid of me with a few clicks of that button, and I don’t want her to get any ideas. Anyway, I don’t take up that much memory on the old hard-drive, do I? I'm grateful that there’s back up, just in case. I almost forgot. Printed out hard copy as well as handwritten notes. As long as my hard copy doesn’t come too close to the waste paper basket or the Rayburn. That Rayburn is a fiend. I don’t know how many stories and ideas Anna’s fed into its hungry flames. I dread to think. Pity those would-have-been-protagonists. So far I’ve escaped that fate, but she’s made me sweat once or twice. I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve been around a long time, and as long as she remains 'compos mentis' (now there’s a challenge!), I’ll be staying around. I’m embedded in her memory, like some kind of unwanted computer virus (I need to be wanted!). But I can’t be rooted out like one of those. I’m here for keeps. She’ll never get completely rid of me, so she might as well do something about it. If she burns the manuscript and the handwritten notes and wipes clean the old floppy - and deletes me from her computer, it might just weaken me for a while, but that's all. It’s the last thing I want, but I have staying power, if nothing else. She can retrieve my story at any time, as long as she's in the right frame of mind and her grey cells are in working order. Slamming the lid down on the laptop doesn’t help either of us, nor the machine, Anna! I think I’ll stay out of the way till she has recovered her poise. Nudge her outside to enjoy the sunshine and children’s laughter; make her relax a little. I’ll relax right alongside her, no problem. Then tonight I’ll go for that tête-à-tête - when she’s neither asleep nor awake. That in-between state of consciousness when the mind is quite lucid, yet the body heavy with sleep. I like that time. That’s the time to get to her. I’ll face her when she can’t block me out or jump up to do something else. She’ll have to listen then. My only worry is that she’ll stay up till all hours (she’s started burning that midnight candle again!) and become so tired that she falls asleep as soon as her heads hits the pillow. That won’t help me at all.
To be continued… © Marit Meredith (aka Anna reiers)
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