Almost there for the Monthly Competition. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Almost there for the Monthly Competition. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
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Janette

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  • #14637
    Janette
    Participant

    It’s hardly fair to say ‘by default’, because @Alex, your story merits more than that. I loved the uplifting ending, and the thread you chose in the challenge, which was a pleasure to read. It is with the same pleasure I pass the baton over to you.

    #14560
    Janette
    Participant

    To clarify – this just relates to autumnal references. You can use sight in other parts of the story.

    #14515
    Janette
    Participant

    Hope this meets the challenge. It is approaching the end of my book Saving Grace, and has spoilers (in the event this thing gets published!). Pervious feedback said this scene felt too easy/convenient. Now, she panics and resists. I show her conflicts as she starts to make comparisons.

    Untitled

    While he drove, Michael told me about how he worked as a countant in his Dad’s counting company – my son-in-law, Fay’s husband, a boss. I’ll remember to tell that to the next snotty beggar who looked down their noses at me.

    He said how Fay and Roland gave their kids a happy childhood, him and his sister Lucy.

    ‘Sister? I’ve got a granddaughter?’

    ‘That’s right,’ he said. I had two grandchildren. Whatsmore, Lucy, had a little boy called Oliver, while he and Christina, his wife, they had three kiddies: Rory, Simon and Imogen.

    My head got fuzzier while I tried to take it in: a daughter and a son-in-law, two grandchildren and one-two-three-four, yes four, great-grandchildren, all hid away like them boxes in the attic while I went through life not knowing. They coulda walked past me and I’d not have known, same as I’d not known Michael. They mighta been one of them looking down their noses.

    ‘Sorry, am I going too fast?’ Michael pulled his car into the side of the road.

    ‘Nay, lad, your driving’s fine, but … happen your mam might want to see me, but what about these others? It isn’t fair to lumber them. It might be better if she came to my house someday instead. It’ll give me a chance to smarten up.’

    I tried to unfasten the belt round my chest. There was a bus-stop over the road, it might take me home … except this buckle thing wouldn’t budge.

    Come on you stupid thing!

    Michael took my hand. ‘Hey, where’s this coming from?’

    I couldn’t meet his eyes, lovely as they were. Instead I found the off-brown button sewn on with black cotton that I’d been fiddling with. ‘Well, look at you, then look at me. I’m from another world than yours. One where my usual seat’s on a bus. A seat covered in wipe-down plastic, not swanky leather. I live in a house as damp as yesterday’s weather. I buy bent tins and charity frocks. Kids in my world, they’ve mouths like a navvy with a stubbed toe, and they chuck muck at windows. When your kiddies see what their dad’s brought home, they’ll –’

    ‘Understand.’

    He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘They’ll realise what their granny was spared. They already know she was found wrapped up cozy in a place she would soon be discovered, and that she was raised by loving parents in a good home, which is the only true difference between you and us. We’ve had all the luck in the world – the same world as yours – and you’ve had none. Until now.’

    He said the last bit as he set the car going.

     

    448 words

    #14277
    Janette
    Participant

    Strange tastes

     

    Oh, I did miss my Bert. Watching him through the window, wheelbarrow-in-hand, shaping our garden into all sorts of strangeness: gaudy, modern art in bloom.

    Me, I preferred order. Neatness. A little chintz perhaps; a Capo Di Monte on the sideboard. ‘Let go, Pammy! Unstiffen your lip,’ Bert would say while waltzing me round in his merriness, though not drunk. Never drunk. I’d rather that than the pipe he’d sneakily puff on, thinking I didn’t notice the drifts of smoke rising from his shed, or the earthy fumes following him inside like an old dog when mealtimes beckoned. Meals I’d not share with him again.

    Oh Bert.

    I wandered down to his shed. Found his tobacco pouch, drinking in its – his – woody odour as I closed my eyes and held it close.

    Go on, give it a go.

    Dare I? It appeared to cheer him up.

     

    Goodness, but a lonely mind could play tricks. A world of colour came alive, flittering in from the garden like butterflies, tickling me as he once might. I found his laughter and his visions and shapes and flavours in soooo many words and, hey, why didn’t I dance to them? Do a flamenco on the lawn – ta-darrh!

    I blew out whisps, long and slow, knitting them around my fingers. Prim old Pamela, smoking, would you believe it? Mother wouldn’t.

    He’d strange tastes, had Bert. Rather like his tobacco, which I think he harvested from his attic garden, window blocked but lights as luminescent as a street lamp. I once failed to fathom his ways, silly I. But not now.

    Thank you, Bert. I did have to let go, didn’t I? I’ll carry on your gardening, my love, outside and in. As for chintz, Screw it! It’s Andy Warhol for me.

     

    296 words

    #14276
    Janette
    Participant

    Yes, thank you, Sandra, for a prompt which took me on a tangent I quite enjoyed! I loved reading the entries, in awe at what we all did with that one sentence.

    And congratulations, Squidge. Well deserved!

    #14138
    Janette
    Participant

    Turning of the Wheel

     

    In a yellow rectangle, in the black façade of a house, a woman is laying a table. Not the sort set for the serving of meat, but one that would see her more trussed and seared than any spit hog.

    Candles set: North. South. East. West.
    Salt cast for purification.

    Gaia had fasted for this night of the blood moon, its mellow light falling squarely about the surrounding floor. Amber on black: a powerful pairing. Closing the shutters would smother its magic. Open brought risk of discovery; her naked body deemed vulgar, her acts wicked … unless sought.
    Successfully sought.

    At the foot of each Candle, Herbs, morn-harvested.
    Fossil stone.
    Owl feather.
    Beads of amber.
    Brook water, moon-gathered.

    The wheel of seasons would complete its turning soon, and she must give thanks for her safe journey thus far. Poor Sarah not here to say likewise, cried out by the man who then donned the black cap. Still he sought out the old ways, to deny him as perilous as tending.

    In the centre, incense for spirit.
    Chalice of silver.
    Wand of oak, wind fallen.
    Athame, black handled.
    Apple, to be eaten entirely.

    Black Cap had turned to Gaia on hearing whispers of her skills. His wife’s time was nearing, but Gaia had seen death as well as birth. Oh, pray it be not Mary’s or the boy child’s. The gods, they could be sparing, the goddesses kind. And though this was a season for endings, was it not also the doorway to fresh starts? Crone Mother, on my watch, let it be starts.

    Incense lit, the smoke rose, curling … widdershins.
    An uncoiling of fate? A life spared?

    Let it be so.
    Grant me, I pray, another full turn of the wheel.

     

    292 words

    #14116
    Janette
    Participant

    How have I missed out on Pete Atkin? Been going to folk festivals for years, and just having heard snippets of him on Youtube, I thought I’d have had recommendations before now, if not seen him in person! I might have to look up some of the gigs you mentioned.

    #14110
    Janette
    Participant

    I give up on books that boast complexity of prose above character or hook to read on, which makes me lean more towards plain text. However I am a sucker for a clever turn of phrase or a descriptive which reads like a painting.

    I used to wonder if my plainer style showed a weakness, and would never read it out during workshops, after others with more poetic prose had gone before me. That is, until a certain Andrew Wille introduced me to Alan Bennett, and though I would never compare my style with his, Bennett showed how simple could also be clever, and how character and local accent could make a piece stand out. So I suppose, while I have been influenced by the likes of Rachel Joyce, along with many others, including some personally known to us, I have to say Bennett has to take the biggest pat on the back for me.

    #14037
    Janette
    Participant

    The Mausoleum

    The star broke down as wife Stephanie’s casket was taken into the mausoleum. The stone masterpiece, testament to their love, could have been fashioned by Wren …’

    Justin Mallory’s architect had also been proud of the secret panel to facilitate re-entry: stone-clad, freed by hidden lock and latch. Justin pocketed the key. He swiped away the online report then turned his phone light on the casket.

    ‘Of course I gave you the grand finale they expected of me. I’m Romeo! You, my Juliet!’

    He gazed around the crude interior. ‘But this monstrosity, it’ll soon be forgotten as will you. Wren? This pile of shite went to the cheapest quote, after I drove him down. “We could cut corners, no-one would ever tell.” And muggins was right, wasn’t he? The reporters couldn’t. Just as I’d claimed I hadn’t noticed the mark on your back when your gobby friend spoke up. Hell, that took some acting out, but, jackpot! The cancer had already done its work.’

    His thumping on the casket echoed around the claustrophobic chamber. ‘How dare you out-pose me? Every event. Posturing while I, Justin Mallory, stood back to wait for you! My fault, I suppose, for choosing the best arm-candy. Who. Should. Have. Known. Her. Place! And here it is! Cancer one, Steph nil, rotting while I move on –’

    Justin turned in horror at a sonorous grating, in time to see the panel slide shut. He clawed at the seam, preened nails tearing, cursing that corner-cutting had included an interior handle, and the levelling of the site to ensure the moron’s stupid panel held firm. Air vents? Corpses had no use of those, or chargers for dimming phones.

    Dimming phones? Justin scrambled for it.

    His scream took no acting. It fell upon dead ears anyway.

    298 words

    #14031
    Janette
    Participant

    And evident name-change! Oh blast – exclude at will.

    #14030
    Janette
    Participant

    Apologies for the spacing etc – is one allowed to go in and tidy up?

    #13982
    Janette
    Participant

    Hand Signals

    Molly matched the testy huff coming from the seat to her left, though neither were on account of the tailback as school runs jostled with motorway traffic on the approach to the roundabout. ‘For God’s sake, Jake. You’ll appreciate one day why I put school first, holidays with your father second.’

    She ignored his mouthed words; the turning away of his head. It would have been so easy to bow to the pressure and enjoy a few days respite into the bargain, but one parent had to show some responsibility, if not the other.

    The traffic lights switched to green, then back to red as Molly approached them. Pulling on the hand brake, she looked across at Jake and braced herself for more lip. Except his frown had lifted to a smile; not at her, but at the silver Ford Focus in the right-hand lane, signalling to turn onto the motorway …

    … or rather, the girl in its back seat.

    About Jake’s age, the girl looked as pleased (not) about her trip to school, although she didn’t appear to be in uniform. She was taking the same interest in Jake.

    Molly wasn’t surprised: the boy was becoming the double of his father, hopefully no more than in looks. He had his tight, black curls, eyes and skin the same clear chestnut, and a smile to melt hearts. And she could see why the attraction was mutual. The girl was a raven-haired beauty.

    Biting her lip, the girl cast an eye at her driver: a man more the age of a brother than a father, his attention on the lights, not her. She returned her gaze to Jake and raised her hand.

    Jake’s smile widened as he acknowledged the guarded wave, thumb placed towards her palm, fingers curling then straightening. The girl’s eyes widened as she repeated her signal to Jake, who smiled.

    Molly didn’t.

    The lights changed to green. She manoeuvred her car behind the Focus.

    ‘What?’ Jake curled his lip. ‘Hey, is it Dad’s after all? I thought you said school had to come first.’

    ‘Not today, Son. Take out your phone.’ She cut into his questioning. ‘Now, please! Call the police. Describe the girl’s car. Tell them we’re following and will continue to give directions. It has a passenger of concern – make that clear.’

     

    387 words

    #10482
    Janette
    Participant

    Sorry I’m so late to this. As many of you know, I’ve had rather a bad accident (tripped on a pothole) and suffered several injuries, including breaks to both arms, particularly the left elbow (I’m left handed).I have been warned the recovery will be long and involved, and I’ll probably not recover full movement to my left arm/elbow. Typing is slow and painful (and fogged with meds) so I’ll have to keep this brief. Sorry, but I’m unlikely to be back on a regular basis for a while, but I’ll pop by regularly if only for a read.

    As for Den, I agree with many points and hope we can turn it around. I love the idea of offering courses and chat, and also wonder if we can throw out a pay-per-entry comp/s (money prize) to raise funds and attract new people?

    sorry, that’s all I can offer for now.

    #10105
    Janette
    Participant

    Wow, who would have guessed that no take-up would transform into four superb entries that I can’t fit a gnat’s wing between. I’ve read and re-read, and gone out for a walk – and here are my conclusions, before I change my mind:

    Sandra – Catalyst

    A gritty, rich voice taking us through a concise, gripping read and an unexpected but brilliantly thought out transformation – that twist at the end finished it perfectly.

    Seagreen

    Another unique twist – this turning words into poetry, inspired by Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Another concise, rich read, making the most of every word from a very canny wordsmith.

    Daedalus – Transformation

    Another oh-so clever piece that had me drawing breath – nature and all things natural, a topic close to my heart. It takes us from the transformation of our vast universe down to the smallest, most fragile insect – in verse. Ingenious.

    Athelstone – Rose the Cat

    Really touching, young voice, telling us of the transformation of her sister – or was it? The clue near the end, perhaps, of the old lady scratching at the floor; like the little girl making sense of a passing kind of transformation? An absolute delight of a read.

    Yeah, how to choose from those? But I have to, and so I’m handing next month over to Sandra.

    #10097
    Janette
    Participant

    last (24hr-ish) shout for the monthly comp (do we still want to keep this going in its current form?). Already we have two excellent entries, but one or two more would be lovely.

    #10057
    Janette
    Participant

    One week left for the March comp, with one excellent entry as yet.

    #9976
    Janette
    Participant

    Now our winter comp is over – may I remind all of you wonderful story tellers that the monthly ones are still running, March already half-way through.
    At present no contenders.

    #9843
    Janette
    Participant

    The Softness Of Untouched Snow

    ‘I say, Lilian, there’s a fair covering out there. Fancy a walk – a slide?’
    ‘Silly old beggar.’ I shook my head and carried on knitting. ‘Out there, in that? Slipping and shivering – at our age?’
    ‘Shivering means you’re alive. Come on, old lass, it’s been a long time indoors. Lets make some footprints afore anyone else does. Make our mark in the world …’
    Off he went to grab our coats, presuming my answer. Never changes, daft bugger. Any more than a dusting and he’s out; snowball fights with passing kids. Snow-fairies on the lawn, I ask you. I swear he loves snow more than sunshine.
    Me, I liked it less and less as years passed. As good a husband as Bert was, snow reminded me of what was missing in our marriage of late; of years, truth be told, only it’s not the done thing to talk about intimate matters.
    Snow’s how we met, you see; him chucking snowballs and catching me by mistake. Laughing, I threw one back, then he threw another and …
    ‘Eee, look at your coat,’ he’d said when we stopped, snow-caked. ‘Here, let me help you dust it off.’
    I’d slipped as I made to him, but he caught me; pulled me close. We kissed, surrounded by a galaxy of glittering snow, uncaring of who else saw.

    I had to admit, as we set out, this cold, February morning, that I’d forgotten about the softness of untouched snow; how crunchy the crust after a night of frost. The parkland we reached, it twinkled like Narnia and memories poured back as I gawped about me at the lacy branches, white-quilted benches and glitter everywhere, from ground to sky.
    A snowball abruptly brought me out of my dreaming and, as I stooped to make my own, I slipped.
    The old bugger laughed as he pulled me up.
    We were face-to-face and, suddenly, we were seventeen again.
    ‘Hey, d’you remember?’
    Bert leant in. I’d forgotten how soft his lips were; what a thrill it caused when his tongue played with mine.
    ‘You made me shiver!’ I said with a gasp.
    ‘Told you it’d make you feel alive.’ He whispered in my ear; ‘What do you say we get back into the warm, and see if I can make you shiver again.’

    384 words

    #9380
    Janette
    Participant

    Thank you for the comp and the positive comments, Ath. And well done Libby – nice work.

    #9309
    Janette
    Participant

    This is such fab news, proving that publishing life doesn’t begin or end with trad agents. Can’t wait to see this in print. Enjoy and celebrate your announcement to the hilt – so well deserved.

    #9257
    Janette
    Participant

    A New Opening

    Lockdown. Away from a contageous world full of contageous people. Away from touch. Away from hold. Away from gossipy nudges and ear-whispers in the office, shrinking my world to room size; specifically the area where work-table met window. I unfasten the latch and swing it wide open in a desperate bid for expanse.
    Between remote meetings, or report compilations, I gaze out, cup in hand. The grassed area (I stop short of calling it a lawn) resembles my most recent self-imposed haircut. The birds didn’t appear to notice, not me or the grass. One, an ear-tipping blackbird, extracated one worm after another from its roots; his song, between tug-of-war hunting, a cross between chortle and natter, reminding me of everyday gossip and lifting my spirits.
    Why hadn’t I heard him before?
    Why hadn’t I appreciated his stark, golden beak, or his yellow-rimmed eyes sitting like jewels in jet? Or the band of other creatures that formed a chorus; sparrows in shrubbery; other tiny birds (must find out which type) hopping about the trees, huge voices bursting out from miniscule bodies. Smaller still, the saddle-bagged bees droning around pillows of lavender I’d blindly passed by before, not taking in the heady aroma now drifting up and around me; an invisible hug, no less powerful than those others I craved.
    I took walks, of course, but my small patch of garden, the rest of the time, offered up newness each day I looked out, like the flowers I never knew I had, stretching and shrinking back with the seasons. My advent window – yes, exactly the same, opened up to fresh wonders each time I sat, coffee in hand, uncoiling that inner spring I’d taken years to unwittingly wind.
    Lockdown; it hadn’t shrunk my world but expanded it. Taken away the rabid need to dash around, toast-in-mouth, each morning. Taught me to slow down; open up. Stop trying to fit ten hours into eight.
    The day would soon arrive, oh please, that we might hug and nudge and be part of a crowd again … but at my pace, which would not involve closing eyes or windows on this new world I’ve found.

    360 words

    #9188
    Janette
    Participant

    Well done, and well deserved, Ath!
    And thanks, Sandra for such an interesting challenge.

    #9137
    Janette
    Participant

    When The Magic Ends

    ‘I dreamt about you last night.’
    ‘Sally, about that.’
    ‘No, please don’t say it. Things used to be so magical.’
    ‘But that was then, can’t you see? People move on. You’re not that kid I first met. There are others –’
    ‘Always were. From the very start you didn’t try to hide it let alone show any remorse. That deep chuckle of yours, as you sat them on your knee, whispering promises to each other, always cut me to the quick. So cruel. But I forgave you and I can again. Can’t we please try?.’
    ‘You’ve always known you couldn’t have me to yourself. Not because I’m cruel, at least I try not to be. it’s just, well, it’s part of who I am. You mustn’t be jealous.’
    ‘I know. I know. And I accepted it because at the end of the day it was me you’d come to, bearing gifts – so many, over the years, each one lovingly wrapped, not that it was all about presents. I loved your generous soul, your selflessness and kindness. You melted my heart and I counted the days to our next meeting. And you wonder that I dreamt of you. Wrote to you.’
    ‘But Sally, you’ve changed. You must know that. I suppose I should be touched you still believe in me; not many would. But this – this is getting unhealthy and I’m asking you to cease with the letters.’
    ‘You liked the letters, you said. And now, magically, you don’t? It’s you that’s changed, Santa.’
    ‘Sally, for the final time, accept I’m part of your past.’
    ‘And you say you’re not cruel. Just like your friend the tooth fairy, you are. I was onto dentures before I cottoned on.’

    287 words

    #9082
    Janette
    Participant

    Congratulations, Sandra – an excellent story. And thank you, Sea, for the feedback and setting a challenge I could rise to.

    #8965
    Janette
    Participant

    By the Sword – 347 words (a couple of expletives)

    Another hand clutched my black-jacketed shoulder.
    Another cliché joined the collection.
    Another pitiful frown.
    Whispers drifted over; how brave she was being; a credit to her husband – oh, how she would miss him …

    The bastard.

    These people, they had been as blind to reality throughout the shit’s life; to his barbed digs, his veiled threats, his fear-inciting scowls, over-speaking and shuns. Thank goodness they were true to form today, when my mouth curled; when my fist twitched that air-punch as the coffin slid through the hatch. Fifty years married, they sniffled. How heartbreakingly romantic.

    They were right, he had financially supported his wife and never once raised a hand in anger. But I’d have chosen a slap any day, above the insidious words that came from his mean mouth. Above the shouts and the taunting – anything to unnerve.

    My fault, of course. I would press his buttons. Make him boil. Oh, and how he boiled: beetroot cheeks and tautened lips. Trembling fists, twitching to hit out while I cowered. The doctor confirmed a dangerously high blood pressure; prescribed tablets to control it; advised to take better care – calm down.

    My fault again, he had huffed. So many buttons pressed – I should rightly feel guilty.

    I did.

    So much so, I undertook to care for him better; pick up his medication; change his diet. The pills I collected looked different from the others, he complained. A different supplier, I supposed – not a lie. A placebo, I neglected to add. And I did watch his diet: ham omlettes of a morning instead of sugary cereal; an extra slip of salt – for flavour; licorice replacing his toffee treats. Instant coffee changed over to percolated – fresh surely more natural. Oh, and the doctor clearly meant more exercise, like carrying bags to the car. It pressed buttons, but that was only to be expected.

    I felt relieved when he uncovered the truth. The almighty rage it brought on was enough to burst a blood vessel … and bring him here today. Still, he who lived by the sword, and all that.

    • This reply was modified 3 years, 5 months ago by Janette.
    #8925
    Janette
    Participant

    Results
    Six entries this month, each a real pleasure to read, but the strength of writing has made judging a tough order.

    John S Alty – Sunset
    I thoroughly enjoyed this story of Frank and Sarah shipwrecked and stranded on an island. Loved the ‘knob of butter’ image of a sun setting, though felt the expression could have been strengthened if it was written in context (reminded him of home cooking?). The depth of hopelessness, lifted by that final call, was a perfect ending to a well-penned story.

    Seagreen – Prison or Exile
    Stunning observation of a person newly passed through a doorway into a different world. It had mystery and tensity, and was enriched with brilliant descriptives like ‘Rivulets of rust spilling down the mountainside like blood through an open vein’. I wanted to read on – yearned to know why/how/where. Is there more? I hope so.

    Sandra – The marking of a life, or two
    A strong, emotion-laced story of a funeral – or two, which told so much in so few words due to excellent phrasing. Loved ‘A warming moment in the monochrome of the day’, and the sunset being a ‘promise of more to come tomorrow – except for Lucy’. Steeped with feeling and a joy to read.

    Athelstone – Red Sun
    Stunning twist – no sunset – great hook. Again using so few words to say so much about how they came to be on Grissom. Loved the expression that antibiotics came a poor second to prayer (being a Christian Science ship). And just as I’d given up on it – that scene of Jess dying to a different though stunning sunset. Perfect.

    Raine – We have picnics at Stonehenge when we’re off duty, it’s enormous fun.
    A remarkable monument with a remarkable story woven around it. Where better to watch the comings and goings of the sun? Full of breath-taking phrases – ‘the clouds are gilded lead’, ‘the sun fills with blood and fury’ and ‘The sun sleeps, you do not’ among my favourites. A strong element of ancient wonder with a distinct flavour of the here and now. Fabulous.

    Libby –
    A journey home of a cheating husband, his mind ticking over what has passed while he observes the urban scenery compared to the suburban sprawl. Beautifully described. Particularly liked ‘The cars in this queue stretch like a narrow audience in front of a screen’, also the comparison between the coming night shift and the returning day workers. His acceptance of his fate is a perfect ending to a thoroughly enjoyable story.

    I struggle to single out a ‘Honourable mention’ because each had strengths I loved. On the basis that I was so compelled to read on, not to mention that breath-taking descriptive of a sunset, I choose Seagreen and Prison or Exile as this month’s winner.

    • This reply was modified 3 years, 6 months ago by Janette.
    #8896
    Janette
    Participant

    Only 5 days to go for the September comp – and only 3 entries!

    #8842
    Janette
    Participant

    How would you describe a breathtaking sunset? Why not come along to the monthly comp and put it into a short story? It’s already half way through the month, it would be great to get a few more entries.

    • This reply was modified 3 years, 6 months ago by Janette.
    #8813
    Janette
    Participant

    Ooh, I remember Bathymetry well. Therefore not at all surprised at its success, but delighted nevertheless at your news Raine! You’re on a well-deserved roll.

    #8782
    Janette
    Participant

    Gosh, just seen the notification in my in-box. Thank you @Squidge for such a good challenge (pity more didn’t join us), and @Athelstone and @Libby. I thoroughly enjoyed your stories and feel we were all winners.

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