Posts

Gestures

Image
A-Z challenge: Part G presenting the newest installment of story It’s not much different to holding a largish puppy: compact weight, body warmth, wiggling. ‘That’s a cat- that’s Scuro. Scuro says, miaow, miaow.’ ‘Ma-ow,’ the child says, ‘ma-ow, ma-ow!’ It peals into more laughing. A cheese-smeared hand pats her cheek. ‘Nom nom, ma-ow!’ ‘Yes,’ Claire smiles, ‘little jolly thing; Scuro likes cheese.’ Little jolly thing laughs. ‘Nom nom, ma-ow!’ She carries the child down to the cat shed. ‘Shh, sleeping.’ Claire puts a shush finger to her lips, points out Old Gray, slumbering in a sunspot. The child copies her gesture. Claire tiptoes along the path. Behind a raised finger, the child sports a conspiratorial smile. It rolls its eyes from Claire to the cats. They step quietly into the shed. One cat unsprawls, strolls to a dish. It laps, purrs, pads over to rub against Claire’s leg, looks up at the child. Claire watches the enthralled child. Her arms start to

Sunday Notes: Eggs In One Basket

Image
Yesterday we dug up an unproductive tree. The morning was soft sun on frost. We are chicken-sitting, and the brood followed close enough to keep my ankles warm while I filled the corn hopper. Came back to the house with six eggs. We were lazy till after breakfast when the sun warmed up and the ice wind dropped away. Then we tackled the garden jobs, and the tree that only leafs was consigned to the hedge, leaving room for a miniature orchard. Healthy work: hot bath: glass of wine: sleep. Today was an early start, and the ice wind had found its way back. We traveled to Bridgewater for Black Belt training, nursing hot coffee from a big silver flask. In two weeks our next Dan grading will be over. I think of this: only two weeks, and its done: so I can ride through the nerves. Steel yourself, lady, with coffee and time! I am nervous too about the book. On Tuesday there will be one thousand copies of the Tae Kwon-Do Time Travelling Tour Bus and Other Stories taking

Fey

Image
Taking the A-Z Challenge: currently with short chapters from a short story. The next excerpt... in which there is joy and sandwiches. They regard each other. Claire stands still. The child; a year, maybe two years old; stares at her, rubs an ear with a smudgy hand. Gender, indeterminate. Miniature jeans, t-shirt, canvas shoes. Hair is shoulder-length, light brown, waves.  The light catches in it. The skin is almost luminescent. She doesn’t want to leave it. The animals are fine, if you leave them. It is easy to give the nonchalant friendly air to the animals. What does one do, with a child? Instinct tells her to hold ground. She keeps still. It makes unsteady strides, around her, to the doorway. Holding the doorframe, puzzles out the step, looks at her, solemn faced over one fey shoulder; turns its attention back to the threshold. One foot pats down to the path. A sigh of recognition is emitted. Claire follows, certain only that it should not be left unattended. He

Entrance

Image
The next excerpt... an unexpected arrival. Although as a plot device, an arrival is never unexpected :-)  Claire scrubs dirt from under her fingernails in the cool kitchen. A sandwich, eaten outside, she decides, can be called a picnic. Scuro jumps up on the table again, illustrates a glimpse of curiosity towards the cat shed. ‘They have scratching posts,’ Claire informs her, ‘squishy beds, toys, space. You will like it.’ Scuro closes her eyes, absorbs sunshine.  Peaked solid clouds sit over the valley. ‘Beautiful view,’ Claire notes. Something clatters in the store shed. ‘Another newcomer?’  It sounds bigger than a cat, a medium sized dog, perhaps. From the clumsiness of the noise, she guesses a large puppy. Best not leave that unattended too long. She finishes the first half of the sandwich, walks inside, plate in hand, unprepared for the sighting of a small child.

Dogs

Image
Part 3: The happiness of dogs far outweighs the poop.  The dogs are ready to go before she slides back the bolt. ‘Stay…’ She checks her pockets for the roll of poo bags. ‘It’s not the best part of the walk,’ she confides, ‘but: necessary. Heel!’ They surge out like one many-legged animal, some kind of dog-centipede, jostling behind her, till they reach the field and she lets them roam. She loves the way they plunge nose to grass, as though the field is brand new to them. The dog pen re-secured, Claire fetches the hand trowel, a trug for collecting weeds and a straw hat to shade her eyes. The earth is soft to touch, lightly damp, warm, aerated. Sometimes a welcome shelter of cloud drifts between her and the sun. She watches the cloud shadow cross the yard, wonders where it will go from here. The trug is filled and lugged to the compost box, once, twice, many times; she sets herself a rhythm of work; loses herself in it until her stomach tells her it might be an apt

Chiaroscuro

Image
Part 2 of 18 of my alphabetically segmented story: a rather short piece, but a lovely moment in which a cat is named.  While she sits outside, yoghurt bowl in her lap, the tortoiseshell cat jumps onto the table, rattles the coffee mug. Claire holds a hand out towards it. The cat pushes a cold nose onto her fingertips, purrs briefly. ‘We might pick a name for you, today. Not Shady, something like it- like Chiaroscuro , do you know that word?’ Cat blinks. Claire rubs her ears. ‘ The use of light and shade in paintings and drawings, or the effect produced by this. Also called claire-obscure ,’ she quotes. ‘Like me. Claire-obscure. Scuro. That’s what I’ll call you.’ 

Breakfast

Image
  Here is the first installment of a short story written for a competition - can't tell you which one as it was written in the diary that was stolen- but the deadline I'm sure has passed. The whole thing is titled Width Of A Plumb Line. The last section will pop up on the 20th April, if my counting is correct.  Sunlight is slipping under the curtains, recreating a daytime world. Like a tethered boat on a swell, Claire bumps in and out of sleep, until the light draws stronger. Unwilling legs slide out of bed. Curtains swoosh sideward. A solid rectangle of brightness opens out over broad floorboards. In the sky is the morning sun and the colour blue. Claire stretches, turns back to the sparse room. ‘Breakfast.’ For the new arrival first, she thinks. Not with the others, not yet. She walks across the warm yard, admires dots of glint on grass blades. ‘Like stars fell,’ she says. ‘Morning, Old Gray.’ Purring shimmers up from the elderly cat, lazing in the cat she

Athena's Dive

Image
This April I have signed up for the A-Z challenge: thank you to Mr Arlee Bird for thinking this up, I tried it last year and it was tougher than I had expected: for each day in April that is not a Sunday I will be pasting up a post that starts with consecutive letters of the alphabet: from A to Z. This first post is a random piece of flash fiction: the next 17 are installments of one short story. That's as far as I have planned: but being British one expects to stop for T. Athena's Dive Down to the deepest point of the lonely ocean, where compression draws straight through me, there is no strength to resist it. Flattened, with such ease. All the reasons, they are drowned too, they are saturated, dissolved. They are simply part of where I am. A secluded part of who I am. We all sink, sometimes. This deep, no other voice can reach. I must speak with myself. Is this reversible? Or am I drowned forever? That will depend on what you choose. I don't

Siesta Fiesta

Image
Hot fat meat fizzing in the high heat oven: all the house has the smell of it. Bellies rumble. Dog, damp and sandy, sleeps in her basket. Mr Grandad has two eyes half open: less than half open: shut. Little Grandson has a Grandad for a pillow. Outside, where the wind has a chill and fine rain now falls, tide-lined boots stand untidy. Inside, there's a timer set, to remind us to peel up potatoes. 

Concept And Construct

Image
Little Grandson helps his Uncle Boy to build an aeroplane. Boy says 'These are the tail wings.' Little Grandson says: 'Tail wings?!' Laughs. Observes askance. Hands over a spanner. Boy flies the aeroplane. 'Do you want a go?' Little Grandson considers the options. 'No.' He knows how to use a spanner now, tucks into the deconstruction. 'Shall we build a car?' Boy asks. 'Yes!' They flick through the manual. A serious little face studies each picture, points out a ship. 'That one?' Boy checks. They build a jeep.

Ticking Over

Image
Yesterday if I was stilled, everything was calmed, peaceful, as it should be. By the day's end I had almost the hang of it. Today if I am still, a cold draught stings at comfort. When this happens, it is time to go walking in the woods. Warmth blossoms in layers as we stride in that direction. The wind must approve, for it moves clouds and lets the sunlight keep some heat. Down at the base of the river valley trees, it is sheltered and full of history: tunnels and ditches and collapsed stone. Trunks of wood float ominous in the dark quarry pools: light and breeze sweep the surface, make a net of polished glass, a mosaic of sky. Back at the table in the living room of our little cottage, I sit to write. Mr puts bread and cheese under the grill. I hear the grill pan clatter. The wind moans as it catches on wires, it blows a black cloud of starlings out of an oak. I hear the frantic arm of the lucky waving cat, ticking like an over wound clock.

Rest And Protest

Image
In the last stretch of morning run, I push legs to a sprint. Tiredness catches up with inconvenient ease. Stomach hurts and brain only thinks in blinks, it can't concentrate at all. Lie on the sofa, sleep light. Get up to drink some tea. Marvel at the dog hair stuck to my clothes. I look like a feather. Washing goes in machine, washing up goes under the tap… I have too much enmity for inactivity. My stomach hurts. This evening I do not go to work. I may even watch some television. For the last push of this lap, oomph must be revived.

Lights In The Dark

Image
Another whirl of a day: Lawhitton, Exeter, Weston-Super-Mare, Launceston, Plymouth, Home . I have made notes, or I would not recall the half of it. Messages and emails ping through my phone and oh the lovely feeling when I say, 'Excuse me, I must just show how brilliant my life is by returning this query from my printer. You know, because I am a publisher as well as all those other talents I have lying around here.' Which is an accurate paraphrasing, I assure you. On the way Home Eventually it is dark, the moon is big and the headlights frequently dazzle. Nothing expresses childish delight like a delighted child.

The Invoice

Image
Found a new tunnel!  Sun streams down barely warm in the glacial sky. In hope, washing is pegged to line. The woodpile is low so coal chugs on a damped down fire: enough to keep out ice, not quite enough for comfort. Dog lies on the sofa, watches everything from one bored eye. Cat drifts in, to sleep in a corner. Outside the wind is sharp, light, quiet. The printer's invoice arrives, and is paid. Dog is right, it is time to go to the woods and wander off the path. It cold, I think, as I first leave the house steps, but I do have gloves, two pairs of socks, a sense of adventure. Path or ditch...?

Wake Up Laughing

Image
Could not help but be amused on receiving this email today: '100% Genuine Reviews. What was great? What wasn't so great? What really stood out? Our genuine guest reviews help fellow travellers choose the right hotel - and your expert opinion counts! So go free...' I bought a new diary but, being tired, unfairly pick fault with the year planner layout. It was picked from a small selection of leftovers held behind the counter of the stationers in a cardboard box. I tell the assistant about the hotel burglary, but I don't much care for spreading bad news. A handbag, a diary, a notebook, even the handmade for Mum key ring, they are but things. This new diary with which I have yet to bond was the cheapest nearest thing to what I wanted, and it will do perfectly well after the restoration of sleep. I will dream of the delight of the hotel management when they view my genuine guest expert opinion on the Late Rooms site.

Welfare

Image
One Heath-Robinson inspired burglar alarm Yesterday was unusual in that it was the first day this year I didn't post a blog entry, plus a few other things. Today I was very tired, and as I recount backwards, it will be shown to be unsurprising. Today I wore a yellow shirt, signifying the role of Welfare Officer at a TAGB tournament. Should a child or vulnerable adult be in need of assistance, for reasons of paperwork errors or emotional meltdowns or the physical shock of being hit by a determined opponent or a mysterious case of lost sparring equipment, then the Welfare Officer steps in. The resilience of the children was impressive. It speaks well of the standard of training. Most of my conversations went like this: 'Did you get hit?' 'Yes.' (Wipes tears from cheek.) 'I'm okay though.' Outside it is snowing. The car park was slithering with eager competitors as we arrived. The breakfast; digesting noisily in my stomach; was free, and th

Three Tiny Harmonies

Image
The last of the haiku challenge set by Suze . The three themes are: quench the real loam (which make an oddly pleasant sentence.) This day has sped and the next two are fully booked, so these haiku, though neatly written in order of topic, are rushed out and my return visits to participants will be late, for which I apologise. This morning I took off early and fast for a hospital appointment (some faulty toes, uncomfortable not life threatening) and left my coffee at home. So this first effort is from the heart: In such rush Coffee left cooling Is longed for The pharmacy queue was groaning so I left my paperwork and sought out a hot cup at the ground floor café. Sat facing the corridor, am struck by the contrast of the casual snacks and the life and death stories passing by. And what could be in those green plastic bins, wheeling by my table? So the next effort has a gruesome shade to it: Surgical waste Wheels past pastries:

Vernal Hike

Image
In the hedges, regardless of the wind howl and the punchy rain, daffodils and primrose hold their petals. We go down by the river and slide in mud where the banks overhang. Dog is in the water, swimming after sticks. Here is a fallen tree. Here are wood anemones, thriving in shade, with stems so slender the flower heads seem to float. Here is Dog, leaping in a wake of squawks and there goes pheasant, ruffled. From the river we follow the path, steeply up, holding whips of sapling for balance. From here the river turns are observed, only a few shades lighter than the earth that flanks it. Between the trees we walk and talk of which will fall next and where will be best to forge that river. From this day, the light draws out, winter must decline: regardless of the wind howl and the punchy rain.

This New Chapter Repeats A Theme

Image
Final proofs for the Tae Kwon-Do book are received today by email, just as I'm heading out of the door to get to work. Override the urge to stay home and press home-printer ink to paper and tremble over the responsibility of using up all my savings. I should be used to this by now. I always use up all of my savings. I don't remember having any regrets over this habit, not afterwards: the nerves clang before and during. I said to myself: but I won't write about this or it will get boring, I will turn egoist. I won't write about the book or how I feel about the money: I will write about the washing that got rained off the line, how the blue morning grew sombre. And see what has happened?

Snapshots

Image
Not everyone has the opportunity to be photographed at work. One of the parents of a junior class student has a new camera, and with permission from us and the other parents, has been whiling away the wait with shutter clicks. In my desk based day jobs some daydreaming was inevitable. They were moments of retrieval: self-preservation. I would view my desk as a still life, see how all the greys of the table tops and old fat boxed computer screens were patterned in the shade of the office foliage, how futile the chain of coloured paperclips as perceived against the weight of in-tray contents. I would think up electronic responses that could never be writ, in case I pressed the irresistible Send. Inevitable, too, the gaze that drifted through the window out into blue or cloud or glare or stars or one's own reflection. In those in-trays lay so much that was nonsense and so much that was pitiful, regardless of the job. Generics and specifics, absorbed in my pauses, part