@sandradavies
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Fabulous indeed – thanks for the link, Libby. I’ve much enjoyed Emma’s two previous novels, so this will be a cert.
Sorry Jill, Returned from ten days away to a refusing-to-charge laptop, and, three days from going away for another week, I’ll not be posting anything for this month’s comp’ Looks like you’ve got some good response so I’ll aim to read ASAP.
Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences. Like Jill, Steve and I were but 16 and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when Steve asked my Dad for, permission to marry me his response was ‘Are you sure? ‘You’re worth ten of her!’ Steve’s Mum said only ‘But so soon, while my future father-in-law simply said ‘Oh gor blimey Steve, what do you wanna go and do a thing like that for?’
Janette’s snobby neighbours had an echo too, but sadly it was my mother forbidding me to play with one family, her not understanding that the eldest daughter was the only one to show me kindness on my first day at the local school.
So, much as I’d like to declare a tie, I’m declaring Jill a winner, for evoking the happier memories. And looking forward to September’s challenge.
Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences. Like Jill, Steve and I were but sixteen and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when Steve asked my Dad for, permission to marry me his response was ‘Are you sure? ‘You’re worth ten of her!’ Steve’s Mum said only ‘But so soon, while my future father-in-law simply said ‘Oh gor blimey Steve, what do you wanna go and do a thing like that for?’
Janette’s snobby neighbours had an echo too, but sadly it was my mother forbidding me to play with one family, her not understanding that the eldest daughter was the only one to show me kindness on my first day at the local school.
So, much as I’d like to declare a tie, I’m declaring Jill a winner, for evoking the happier memories. And looking forward to September’s challenge.
Aargh – busy weekend filled with grandchildren visits and attempts to add names to a 1905 photo of a Christmas celebration. I’ll get to reading and deciding ASAP.
Have to say I am astonished to be chosen, Sea – and grateful, despite feeling that I fell far short of ‘enthralling’ in comparison to those far more apt which were posted, and made impressive reading. Also, following what has been something of a let-down day, this was a welcome cheering, so thank you for that. I’ll aim to post August’s competition by midday tomorrow.
Okay Sea, that ‘honesty snagged my conscience:
The last time I cried was as I attempted to sleep, having earlier been admitted to hospital after my husband Steve correctly diagnosed the oddness of my being unable to control my fingers, while doing the Saturday General Knowledge as potentially a stroke. Quoting ‘FAST’, he did everything right and within 60 minutes I was being reassured, ‘We’ve stopped the bleeding in your brain.’(I did wonder how they could tell) What they couldn’t stop was the ever-present image of Steve’s face as the ambulance left him on the footpath outside our house, the sharp pain of separation. When the ward lights finally went out (and silence failed to fall I could only picture him lying in our bed on his own, and couldn’t stop the tears then.
A more honest – and undoubtedly shaming – confession is that I never cried a single tear when my mother died.
Earlier in the day, at home in her own bed, she repeatedly begged, ”Just let me go, I’ve had enough.”
Hard to wish otherwise for her. My Dad and her sister needed greater care. As did her grandchildren when I reached home with the news.
<p style=”text-align: right;”>Sorry Sea, I’ve been racking my brain (while fighting off Ken Dodd and attempting to pack for some days in the Hebrides) but am totally bereft of words about tears.</p>
Oh, hooray, and congratulations @ Seagreen, but similarly to all for a varied and thought-provoking selection of ‘last times’. Thank you too Ath for the prompt – a subject which I ponder increasingly frequently.
Unexplained death
On rainy days, visiting my paternal grandmother Dora in the 1950s, we’d spend time looking through old photo albums. Most impactful was one of a newly engraved white headstone:
In memoriam
Effie Sutcliffe
Beloved Wife of
Herbert Sutcliffe of Fruitvale
Born April 17 1891
Died April 1914
Rest in Peace
Invariably, Dora sighed: ‘So sad. My brother left his home just as it was and never went back.’
Within thirty years, these albums, along with letters, postcards and much else pertaining to the family, came into my possession, spurring me to research the Sutcliffe family’s history.
I learnt that Herbert met Effie in New Zealand, having worked his way across Canada from his ranch in Manitoba. Attraction must’ve been instantaneous, and strong enough to support them during three years on different continents while Herbert returned home to Halifax, before returning to Fruitvale in British Columbia to build a cabin on land he’d earlier purchased, before eventually returning to New Zealand where they married.
During this long courtship Effie and Dora (then courting my eventual grandfather) exchanged photos and postcards.
In 2007, courtesy of a BSA Rally in New Zealand, we arranged to visited Effie’s nephew Bill, in Timaru where we were given copies of a post-marriage letter she’ d written in July 1913 to her brothers, describing her journey from New Zealand to Canada, and a later one, dated 9th April 1914, to her mother. This very likely the last time Effie wrote; the following eight days filled with waiting for her, while its contents – or lack of them – raised yet more questions for me.
Bill had earlier told me Effie’s mother ‘took against’ Herbert from the start – not entirely surprising if it looked like he’d be taking her away, so Effie’s stressing how glad she was to be in Canada; how well she was looking “It has made me strong & well again. My face is fat and rosy, ” was not surprising, along with her adding “Bert is so easy to please & he can’t do enough for me. I do think I am lucky girl “ Effie then goes on to say “We are wondering mother if you have any money to let out. If you could let us have £50 at whatever interest you get. There is no work to be had in Fruitvale this year and the settlers can’t get any loans”
She then explains how “to do it most quickly “ before saying “I will tell you my news” and saying she has been baking. Nowhere does she mention she is pregnant, which would seem the most likely way to soften her mother’s heart.
Like us, Bill had no definite knowledge of how or why Effie died; ‘in childbirth’ assumed most likely. Only on eventually receiving a copy of her death certificate, citing “toxaemia of pregnancy: eclampsia” as cause of death ” could I be sure; another photo showed the now-weathered headstone in Ymir.
[498 words excluding title]
Congratulations Athelstone, and thanks to Terrie, Sea and Libby for their responses to Janette’s May challenge – all so entertaining – and for the summing up.
Lyrical determination (thin on legend)
2001, around eleven, on the first day of May, lying on a sun-striped bed in an attic studio, John Martyn exhorting, ‘May you never’, in a voice fluffy and worn as the sheet beneath them and a saxophone further ramping up lust, Fran Lloyd satisfactorily surrendered her virginity to Ivo Kinnersley. Ivo, at eighteen, had a reputation for both skill and sensitivity (he known to be well-practised) and Fran congratulated herself for having risen before dawn to bathe her face in May Day dew so as to ensure her irresistibility.
Not that it was the first time she’d been naked on this bed: ever since discovering she was officially Francesca, Ivo had called her ‘Chess, ’ embarking on painting a series of ’Chess Pieces’ for which she, sometimes part-clothed, had been posing for some weeks, John Martyn on eternal repeat. She’d whiled away conversation-lacking hours, substituting lyrics and mentally listing other things she feared she might’ve already missed – not yet sixteen the list seemed daunting, but at least she could tick off skin to skin sex with a naked Ivo.
Seven years later, the ‘May never’ of the song became nigh on permanent soundtrack to the seemingly doomed relationship between herself and the man she’d wanted at first sight. His fluctuating uncertainty, his occasional sabotage undermined her confidence, distorted her behaviour. Until, spotting by chance in a charity shop, John Martyn’s ‘Anthology’ CD, she purchased it. Allowed it to infiltrate her mind and to initiate a determined – and ultimately future-proofing weekend of rapprochement, ‘May you never’ becoming unthinkable while the final track – ‘I don’t wanna know – ’convinced her to opt for love rather than the evil of separation. Sitting up, she said, ‘Yes, I do want to marry you. Sooner the better.’
During the hasty, still sometimes aggressive weeks that followed, she once again resumed sitting naked for Ivo, in secret, in a Glasgow flat. The years spent training her future husband to trust her proved their worth as well as unexpectedly equipping her to pass with flying colours the test he’d inadvertently set her.
[343 words excluding title]
Well done Janette and Seagreen for such entertaining tales, and thank you Libby for forcing me into finding new characters to deal with this tricky prompt. I was grateful for the part played by Google.
Three sleeps become one [342 words]
Odd the way memory works, Changes shape and emphasis as one grows older. For me, hearing myself echoing my mother’s faux cheery encouragement as she told me and Robin, my brother, ‘So, you’ll be staying with Granny and Grandad Trent for a little while. Just three sleeps – ‘ shocked me. That I was …. not exactly lying to my children, but knowing I was at least sugaring the truth. For one, my -in-laws hardly knew their grandchildren (and had made it clear that what they did know, they didn’t like. My bad influence of course. And it promised to be a sunny weekend which meant, if she had her way, they’d be confined to the sitting room all day, out of harm, except for cooking in the heat coming through the bay windows, with nothing but the stacks of yellow-edged, loose-paged books their father had allegedly got his education and intelligence from to look at. Or oft-done jigsaws, with missing pieces, to do.
An idea occurred, ‘Maybe you could ask Grandad if he’d like some help in the garden.’ That’d at least allow them to get some fresh air.
But they only had to last for one sleep.
Mother-in-law phoned our hotel Sunday morning, interrupting the best child-free sex we’d had for months.
Seemingly after a couple of hours indoors, Toby escaped outside (Granny having needed a lie-down) where, given the freedom of the vegetable garden he’d been encouraged to gather the past-it parsnips, as well as an assortment of leaves and beans and herbs. These he presented to Lucinda. She, lording it over the kitchen, made soup.
Grandad consumed a couple of bowlfuls with apparent enjoyment, praising her to Granny, ‘Proper performance she put on, making it, just like those ‘Bake-it TV programmes .’ Both apparently unaware of the danger of allowing seven year-olds- access to sharp knives and stove-tops. As potentially dangerous, according to the pathologist who carried out the post mortem on Grandad, as eating wild parsnips then falling asleep in the garden and getting sunburn. It’s the furanocoumarins, apparently.
And, at close of play, I confess I find myself reeling at the richness of the offerings sparked by this ptompt, and rather than daunted by the necessity of choosing a winner, feeling well rewarded by the pleasures of reading them – thank you all.
Terrie>’s single word of denial sparked instant interest, and maintained it with phrases such as ‘a curl of recalled horror’ and ’dangled memory of time’ before delivering a crash-landing of an ending.
Libby’s ‘They’d Chosen Me for Being Good at Isolation’ set up intrigue, delivered an ill-briefed spy justifiably scared and in hiding from bloody and a vividly described situation of riot and violence; teetering on uncertainty as it gets out of hand before coming full-circle to the gulls.
Janette’s ‘The Prophecy’, a tale of mother manipulating daughter’s friends in a misguided effort to salve her conscience held uncomfortable echoes for me, but proceeded much, much more vividly and with a far more tragic ending – an excellent, painful fusion of the opening lines.
Knick’s self-declared disqualification for breaking the word limit with her superb, ‘Promise Landing’ does ease my decision=making a little, because this is yet another mind-fizzing, knock-out entry.
Athelstone’s opening sentence instantly demands attention, sending my mind wondering exactly … what? Then answering – wrapping the reader in a wealth of story which gives place and situation, neighbours good and bad; facts and hints of sorrows and ending with a final tug of heartbreak. (Not to say a second self-declared disqualification.)
and lastly, Seagreen, whose continuation of the prompt’s future tense made a first impact and the tale itself continued to supply tension, emotion and location, as well as a snappy end. Which leaves me with four from which to declare a single winner. So … I’ve read and re-read each at least three times and declare … Libby this month’s winner, albeit, as I’m sure you’ll all agree, it’s only by the merest whisker, because I thought every one more than brilliantly filled the brief – thank you all so very much.
Wow, Sea, that is a surprise, especially as I felt completely out-classed by every other entry – but challenged too, which was a Good Thing. I’m away from home at the moment but will aim to post March’s compTuesday evening. Thank you all for the several inspirations.
Somehow I missed this entire comp – sorry Richard – but am nevertheless rewarded by being gifted four marvellous pieces of writing – thank you each and all.
Dilemma
So, last night’s message warning that the Wimps were planning some sort of revolt had been genuine, despite the unlikelihood. As Jack had said, delivering it, something must’ve fired them into action, provided them with a Warrior script instead of the Wimp one their biology merited.
Frey’s eyes sharpened on noting my arrival (We’d a history which, as anticipated, she preferred to deny) as I made impersonal her twitch of revulsion, the power of which was sufficient to ricochet from shoulder to shoulder of every Wimp in the room, its path made audible by tiny shrieks as though the room had become infested with air-borne white mice. Watching, listening to Frey’s delivery, I reckoned she’d received more than the script Jack mentioned, because her voice had gained a gritty strength, her eyes the flame of conflict. She spoke of their decision – their need, insistence, even to shed subservience, in order – heaven forbid – to match our strengths. No major worry there, but on hearing her mention dragons – and having banished from my mind an image of the several dozen women in the room cavorting ,in skin-tight leather, I had to pity her ignorance. She’d clearly not caught so much as a whisper of our enhanced dragon breeding programme; had not a clue about our success in doubling both size and strength of hatchlings – to an extent where we were having to train, to build muscles and develop new techniques for their harnessing, their handling and control. No-one in this room would be capable of doing more than provide them with a a light supper.
Question was, do I warn them? Would they listen? Believe even? Knowing that to allow them to head to the hatchery would not only risk their lives, but would also betray the secrets of my fellow fighters. (300 words)
Regrettably late to this – and non-participant – but what a joy to catch up with those that did make the effort- thank you @ Richard and @Terrie
Sea, I well remember, a couple of years ago admiring your shorter haircut when you picked me up at Markinch station, Promise I wasn’t thinking of the competition we might meet at Craigievar! I did hope to do something more inspired for this great prompt, but ran out of mental space, so well done Ath. (and yes, I got ????)
My view is that publishers are in it for the money, and celebrity sells more – and more reliably – than as-yet-unknown novelists (potentially supplying a profit which might enable them to take more chances on unknowns?) It might be seen as ‘not fair’, but in my view is more honest to trust readers’ appreciation of well-written novels than bombard them with social media campaigns.
This is not my take on the headline, but I’ve posted it here because I could not come up with anything more ludicrous.
“Short hair hints may be ‘sabotage” study finds.
Publishing her research on the ’Science Direct’ website, under the heading ‘Personality and individual Differences’ Danielle Sulikowski details how women were asked to give advice to clients at a hypothetical hairdressing salon. From the high proportion of suggestions for a shorter haircut, whether or not the client was known to them, she deduced that competitive women saw shorter hair as sufficiently less attractive than long to more likely recommend shorter haircuts in an attempt to reduce the number of attractive women and increase their chance of success in the fields of love and status. Sulikowski states ‘What seems like it might be a flippant topic is actually quite serious.’ [140 words]
Congratulations to Seagreen, and to everyone else who supplied an entertaining and impressive piece to October’s comp. And to Knicks for setting it,
Apologies, Knicks, I’m not going to submit anything this month – torn three ways with something that will not knit.
@ Richard, glad to hear you were inspired, and hope it becomes a (good) habit. I did try to make sure I’d the time-line correct for Rebecca, but whichever, it worked as far as impact was concerned.
I should’ve known better than to panic – what I took for drought was silent fermentation which resulted in an uncorking and a fizzing cascade of sparkling wines. Knick’s violently vivid tale of betrayal dangerously intoxicating with an awe-inspiring detonation of language.
Richard B’s continuation of his ‘Whodunnit’ tale and Rebecca’s stoic acceptance –the flat tube of toothpaste – was similarly, silently but painfully affecting, but welcome for the implication that time does heal.
Terrie’s ‘He blinded me with attention, and by being everything I wanted him to be’ perfectly encapsulated the situation, temporarily blinding me as to how it would – wonderfully – end.
Athelstone managed to break my heart, both with his story and with the final line, and Seagreen’s Freedom Jones – impressive, mind-blowingly mysterious and so very intriguing – hurt in unanticipated ways. Then Alex added another, individual, alcoholic twist, this time of rum and I found myself provided with half a dozen stories more than equal to those of A L Kennedy. And with the necessity of naming a ‘winner’ when in truth I think it was me who won. So, since all merit first place, and because I think it’s a while since Knicks set the monthly competition, I’ll hand the baton to her, thanking you all.