Faith

This was published. It made my day.  

Dear Writers' Forum, I have always connected faith to religion and being a devout atheist, I had no truck with it. I am a humanist. When I read "Tales of my Guru" by Hugh Scott (July 2022), it was a revelation. That's what I need, I told myself, faith in my ability to write. So, I opened my laptop wrote two stories for my writing groups  and this letter. Thank you, Hugh Scott, and thank you Writers' Forum. 

Yours faithfully, 

Jean Wild 

PS Loved the cartoon on page 5 too. Also, by Hugh Scott.  

Iris in Fairy Tale Land

 Iris was staying at her Nana's for the Summer Holidays. It was quite late when she arrived on the first day because she had travelled from England to Brittany where Nana lived.

"I think we should have supper and a bedtime story. We can get up early in the morning and after breakfast you can explore outside in the garden."

So, when Iris was tucked up in bed Nana opened the big book of Fairy Stories that she always read for the grandchildren. 

“Can I just sing you a new song I learned in school last week," said Iris.

"OK. Then one story and eyes closed."

" It's called, "The Crocodile"

"She sailed away on a sunny, sunny day on the back of a crocodile.

You see," said she," he's as tame as tame can be I'll float him down the Nile.

The croc winked his eye as she waved her friends goodbye wearing a happy smile.

But at the end of the ride, the lady was inside,

And the smile was on the crocodile."

"Very funny," said Nana. "Now don't go dreaming about crocodiles."

"I won't," said Iris as she snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes.

 Before Nana had barely begun to read Iris was fast asleep. She drew the curtains, closed the book, put it on the bedside table and crept downstairs.

It was about midnight when Iris turned over and felt a heavy weight on her legs. She sat up and was surprised to see a big black cat sitting on her legs and staring at her. "It's OK. Don't be afraid. I have come to invite you to a wedding."

"Our wedding," said the huge white owl which seemed to appear from nowhere. "You see," said the cat, "By the way you can call me Pussy, you see we renew our vows when there is a full moon in the summer.  We do it every year."

"Would you like to come to our wedding. I know you didn't expect an invitation to a wedding on your first night, but we need your help".

Iris was, what shall I say stunned, shocked, surprised and it must have shown on her face because Pussy said, "Oh dear maybe we should ask someone else to help.

" The Owl butted in," You know very well there is no-one else to help. I am sure she will do an excellent job.

"Of course, I would like to help," said Iris now interested and a little excited, "How can I be of service?"

"OK, here is the situation. We got back yesterday from the land where the Bong tree grows and where we bought the ring from the pig who stood in the wood. Now we want to get married again by the light of the moon, tonight. We, that's Owl and me have a lot of preparations. I shall get the food ready, and Owl wants to practise a new tune on the guitar."

"Right, so what is it that you want me to do?"

"I, er, we, would like you to remind people to come. Here you are. Here is a list. All the animals on the list live in Nana's garden. They know the routine. They come every year, but they need reminding."

Iris took the list which she read out loud. " The 3 Little Pigs, The 3 Billy Goats Gruff, The 3 Bears and The Princess and the Frog and Winnie the witch. Great. How will I find them?”

“I have drawn a map. It is quite simple. I will explain everything. I suggest the 3 little pigs first. They live in the wood. Here in the top right had corner, I have marked it with a cross. Then go to the small pool with the bridge. I have marked a cross there too. Go over the bridge and you will find the 3 billy goats gruff there eating the grass. Probably your next bet will be the 3 bears. They live in the old stone barn. You know where that is. Next, I suggest the Princess and the frog. They live on either side of the very small pond. Again, marked with a cross. Last but not least go to the Willow House where you will find Winnie. She is sometimes a bit grumpy, but she will give you a lift on her broomstick to the wedding ceremony."

" What is that big round thing that says danger in big red letters?" asked Iris. 

"Oh, sorry about that, should have told you. That's where the crocodile lives. He eats most things. Animals, humans, in fact anything that gets near to him. But most of us who live here in this garden know about him and never ever go near the big pond. Now off you go there is no time to lose.”

With that, the Owl and the Pussy cat disappeared. “Where have they gone? Oh well, I'd better get cracking,” Thought Iris, but I'm not going to go near the crocodile, no sir". And off she went on her quest. Outside she looked at the map again and proceeded to the wood. She had been in the wood many times, but she had no idea that the 3 Little Pigs lived there. As she stood at the edge wondering which path to take one of the little pigs appeared. “What do you want little girl," he said. “You haven't seen the Big Bad Wolf, you? "

“No, no I haven't seen the Big Bad Wolf. I have come to remind you about the wedding. The Owl and the Pussy Cat's ---”

“Yes, yes, we know all about the wedding. We go every year, but you be very careful, he eats little girls you know.”

“Who does?" said Iris. “The big bad wolf,” said the pig and went into the wood calling for the other two pigs. “Come on you two, we are going to the wedding again.”

Then he appeared  again and shouted, " Don't go to the big pond."

Iris turned and ran down the path as marked on the map to the small pond with the bridge. She started to walk over the bridge. " Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?"

" Oh no," said Iris out loud. "They didn't tell me the Ugly troll was still here."

"Who are you calling ugly little girl?"

"No, no, I didn't mean, I am so sorry. Do you know about the wedding? Maybe you would like to come to a wedding. It must be really boring living under a bridge and repeating the same old, same old. Who's that trip trapping, blah blah--"

"Whose wedding is it and where is it?" said the Troll interrupting Iris.

"The Owl and the Pussy Cat are getting married tonight in this garden. There will be music and dancing and lovely food. It will be great. But if you want to come you must promise that you will let the Three Billy Goats Gruff come over the bridge without harassing them. You don't want Great Big Billy Goat Gruff to throw you in the water, do you?"

The Troll ducked under the bridge muttering something which Iris took to be a promise.

She went over the bridge into the field where all the Billy Goats had stopped eating grass and were staring at Iris. Great Big Billy Goat said, "What on earth did you say to the Troll. Why didn't he eat you?"

"I am afraid I called him ugly, but I did invite him to the wedding. You are invited too. The Owl and the Pussy Cat are getting married by the light of the moon tonight. The Troll has promised to let you all come over the bridge."

All 3 Billy Goats jumped up and down a few times then ran to the bridge where they stopped. "Are you sure he will let us pass?"   Iris wasn't at all sure. She had never dealt with a Troll before, but she said," Of course, he promised."

Just then the troll reared his head and roared loudly, as only Trolls can and said," Over you go. Quickly now before I change my mind."

" I had better go and find the 3 Bears," thought Iris. Great Big Billy Goat Gruff turned back and shouted to Iris. "What about the Big Bad Wolf, he likes to eat little girls."

"So, I've been told. But I haven't seen him or heard him tonight. I am going to visit Winnie the witch later. Do you think she will be able to deal with him?"

"Worth a try," he said. "And keep away from the big pond."

The 3 Billy Goats gruff who were followed at some distance by the Troll, went on their way and Iris went to the old barn to find the 3 Bears.

She knocked on the door and then pushed it open. She wondered if the Bears were dangerous. Goldilocks obviously thought so. I wonder where she is now.

"Who are you and what do you want?" said a bear that Iris assumed was Daddy Bear. He was enormous. "My name is Iris. I am staying at my Nana's house, and I have come to remind you to go to the wedding. The Owl and the Pussy Cat are getting married tonight by the light of the moon."

" Are you sure that you haven't come to steal our food and sleep in our beds like that Goldilocks girl?"

"And she broke my chair," said Baby Bear who appeared behind Daddy Bear.

"Of course not. My name is Iris, not Goldilocks. Please come to the wedding. There will be music and dancing and food and everything."

"I will tell Mummy Bear. She will want time to get ready for a wedding. So off you go and see you later. Oh, and by the way, be careful of the Big Bad wolf. He likes to eat little girls and don't go down to the big pond."

Iris was beginning to think that there must be a reason why all the animals were asking about the BBW. If he is in this garden and if he does eat little girls, then I should be afraid and be more careful. She asked herself whether she should go to find the witch first or the Princess and the Frog.

She looked at the map and decided that as the little pond was nearer than the witch's house, she would go there first but she ran as fast as she could anyway. They were there, on either side of the pond. She overheard them talking.

"I am not a prince," the frog was saying.

"That is quite obvious, and what's more you look more like a toad than a frog. And for the hundredth time I do not want to kiss you."

Iris secretly agreed but didn't say anything. Instead, she said, "Why not come to the Owl and the Pussy Cat's wedding. I have come to remind you. There will be music and dancing and food. It is tonight because of the moonlight."

"Yes, yes we know. We go every year. Have you seen the BBW? You should be careful. He eats little girls," they both said.

Iris turned around and walked back up the path without checking the map. "Now where am I? I thought I knew this garden."

A cloud, a big dark cloud covered the moon and Iris could no longer see the map. "I seem to remember the big pond is this way so I will go in the opposite direction I don't want to meet the crocodile."

Iris felt lost and said to herself that this was all very silly and that she knew every inch of this garden, after all it was Nana's garden, but she didn't know that all these animals lived here too. She sat down on a log to think. It is very quiet thought Iris but just then she heard crying. 

"Who's crying, are you alright, are you in pain? Can I help? Aren't you coming to the wedding is that why you are crying?"

"Little girl, you should not be in this garden at night, and you are on your own too, aren't you? You know that a BBW lives here, and he eats little girls."

"Yes, yes, so everybody says but I haven't seen him. Anyway, why are you crying? "

"I haven't been invited to the wedding?" Iris heard the crying turn to sobs.

"OK, no need to cry I will take you. I can't see you. It is very dark?"

"That's alright, you sit tight, I will take you. Hold on now."

Just then the clouds cleared, and Iris looked up to see the moon and--

"Damn, damn, damn, it's that wicked witch, " said the crocodile.

"Iris, jump on my broomstick. Why are you sitting on the crocodile? " shouted Winnie as she landed next to the crocodile.

“What? A crocodile? No, no I am sitting on a log. Who is crying?”

“Have you never heard about crocodile tears?”

“Be quick. Hold tight,” said Winnie.” Iris jumped on the Broomstick and looked down to see a crocodile with big tears rolling down his face.

Winnie and Iris sailed up and up and glided past the full moon. She looked down and by its light saw the wedding taking place. They were all dancing. The Three Little Pigs, The Three Bears, The Three Billy Goats Gruff, The Frog and The Princess and even the Troll. She could hear the Owl singing and playing his guitar.

“Wait for me. Save me some mince and slices of quince. I want to eat from a runcible spooooooon.”

Iris woke up with a start, sat up, yawned and rubbed her eyes. “No, I haven't seen the BBW,” she said.

Nana drew back the curtains with a loud swish and the bright sunlight flooded the room. “What did you say? Good morning. Come along now, we have lots to do today. Grass cutting, weeding, flower picking and, and---"

"Do you mind if we don't go into the garden today,” said Iris rubbing her eyes.

  

Paris

 

One night in Paris

The plane landed at 3.00pm at Charles de Gaul airport. They had been estranged for two years. Unable to bear the loneliness she had contacted him again and this was to be a romantic reunion.

He was a violinist. She had been his pupil then his lover. They had made beautiful music together in bed and out.

At the airport after customs, they made their way through the airport through a maze of signs and escalators and lifts to the shuttle to take them to the trains. They thought that the youths who pushed and shoved were ill-mannered and rude.

‘Depechez-vous, depechez-vous,’ cried a voice they assumed to be that of the conductor of the shuttle.

They realised otherwise when they reached the station. They stood before the ticket office. He gasped. She looked at him. He was staring down at an empty bumbag. He was pale. He swayed. She thought he was about to faint. He rallied, ‘Gone, it’s all gone. Money, passport, cards everything.’

They stood staring at each other, both now speechless with shock.

‘Go to the Gendarmerie was the advice from the man in the ticket office. Get the number six bus and ask to be put off at the Gendarmerie.’

‘I need money,’ he said at last finding his voice.

‘I’ve got a card,’ she said.

He could speak no French.

She tried to remember what she had learned long ago at school and recently in her new French class.

‘Distributeur près d’ici?’ she asked a woman.

She went in the direction of the pointed finger, found a cash point and returned with 200 euros.

The colour returned to his cheeks.

They were both still in shock.

‘We need to think. Let’s buy drinks and sit down to think.’

The station was cold, draughty and dirty. They felt beaten up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The romantic reunion was turning into a nightmare.

‘OK,’ she said with determination. ‘We have to find the Gendarmerie to report your loss otherwise you won’t get your insurance.’

They caught the bus and alighted at the building. They circled it twice before finding the entrance. It was hot and they were carrying their luggage. They were tired.

In the reception they waited. They waited a long time but at least they were sitting, and it was cooler.

She thought, ‘Is this a sign. We shouldn’t be together.’

He thought, ‘Why did I come? I can’t even speak the language.’

The large clock on the wall ticked loudly in the otherwise silent waiting room. It was impossible to ignore the dragging passage of time each second was heard and felt. Somehow with her schoolgirl French and the Gendarme sparse English she told their story, and he gave them the important piece of paper they needed for the insurance.

Finally, they returned by bus to the station and caught the train to the Gard du Nord. It was five hours since the plane had landed and five hours since they had been to the lavatory. They followed the signs to the toilets and arrived just as an enormous Caribbean woman was exiting. The door clanged shut and she jangled a huge bunch of keys.

‘Please, please, let us in,’ they both beseeched her.

‘No, they are closed now. Sorry,’ she went to walk away.

‘We’ve had all our money stolen and everything. We’ve been to the Gendarmerie and --. Oh, please let us in.’

She thought, ‘Romantic reunion? I think not.’

He thought, ‘I’m going to pee myself. Can it get any worse?’

The Caribbean woman unlocked the door, all the time berating them like children.

‘It’s Paris. There are pickpockets everywhere. You should take care.’

‘You go in there,’ she said to him pushing him in to a cubicle. ‘You can both go in the ladies. I’ll wait.’

When they came out, she continued, ‘It’s Paris. Everybody knows. You,’ she said pointing to him. ‘Put your money in your shoe. Now. Do it now.’

‘You,’ she said pointing to her, ‘put yours in your knickers. Now let me see you do it now.’

When she was satisfied that they had both complied with her orders she turned and walked away still muttering, ‘It’s Paris, everybody knows. It’s Paris.’

They both thought, ‘Yes, it’s Paris. The City of Love. Not.’

Two trains later they were almost there. They loaded their luggage into a taxi and gave the driver the name of the hotel. The driver leapt out and unloaded their luggage saying, ‘You can walk. It is near.’

He didn’t know. The two hundred yards burdened with cases and feeling like string-less puppets in the now falling rain was like two hundred miles. Finally they made it and were shown into a bedroom.

They undressed without looking at each other and fell into bed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Has the romance gone completely she thought. This romance is dead he thought.

The nightmare wasn’t over. As their heads touched the pillows the mother and father of all thunderstorms broke. Lightening, thunder, lightening, thunder. Bang flash, bang flash. The rain hammered on the French windows so hard they thought some one was trying to get in. It lasted what seemed liked hours. Finally they slept.

When they woke the next morning it was over. The storm was over. She opened the French window and stood on the balcony. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

‘Come and look,’ she called to him. He came to stand beside her and slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him and kissed her cheek.

‘What is it?’

‘Look over there on the other side of the garden. It’s a sign. It’s a good sign isn’t it?’

‘I don’t believe it. It’s a mirage.” It was a violin. A flying violin.

‘ It’s for us isn’t it? It’s a good sign for us.’

He turned her round, encircled her in his arms then picked her up and carried her to the bed.

‘Let’s make beautiful music,’ he said.

‘Mm,’ she said.

Italy Again

 Italy Again

I flung open the window of room 6 on the 6th floor of the 6th hotel and leaned over to look at the view.  Brick walls. No view. I looked down. Something moved. I stared harder. Something had definitely moved. Yes, there it was again.

"It's a blood lizard," I said.

I jumped back and my knees gave way. 

"Close the windows and the shutters. We don't want lizards in the bedroom."

" Oh, where, where?" said my companion, taking my place at the window and ignoring my shaking form.

"Oh there, oh look, there are two of them. Oh, aren't they beautiful? What lovely colours. They don't want to come in here. Don't be silly."

"She is going to leave the windows open all night," I thought. She thinks they are bloody pets. Well, we'll see about that."

"I am just going down to the bar. I need a stiff drink."

"OK, I'll unpack."

I ran downstairs to the souvenir shop. There was a whole case full of rubber animals, from spiders to dinosaurs. There was one that was exactly what I needed. A lizard. It was just like the one I had seen. I bought it quickly and rushed to the bar, bought a whiskey and ginger, downed it quickly and returned to the room.

She was in the shower. It was easy. I slide the reptile under the sheet in her bed and replaced the coverlet neatly.

"There," I thought, "See how you like it."

Later at bedtime when I was in the shower, I heard her scream.

I wrapped a towel around me and went into the bedroom.

" Now will you close the bloody window."

Queen's Jubilee

 Not being a royalist I tried to avoid the celebrations. Unfortunately as I joined a new group which had planned a celebration.  All my principles  dissolved  when I saw the enthusiasm of the women. They all turned up dressed in red, white and blue. They had planned a great party. The room was decorated and the table was laid out for the tea. On seeing the food and drink my willpower to keep to my year long diet dissipated. I became a greedy, gormandising cake-eating monster.

 The jugs of fruit drenched in Pimms and decorated with umbrellas graced the tables. Well it would have been churlish to have refused a glass of that wouldn't it. 

So I ate a macaroon and a large slice of date and walnut cake and a portion of a delicious home made Victoria sponge.

The Irish Colleen

 The Rugby Team and the Girl in the Red Mini-Skirt

She had that Pre-Raphaelite hair, masses of it but red. Redheads are not supposed to wear scarlet but it did not matter it was part of her attraction. She sat legs crossed, elbows on the table supporting the hand with the cigarette and blowing smoke through her luscious bright, shiny red lips.  Red hair, red lips red skirt, mini of course, it was a combination the young rugby team were unable to resist. She emptied one glass and drew towards her another pint of the amber liquid which  seemed to glow with her radiance and seemed more so as it  contrasted to her dark haired, black clothed, thin companion. 

The rugby team jostled for positions. They either sat next to her or in front of her in rows of two or three like an audience. She knew very well that she was holding court and revelled in it. They hung on her every word, panted at every movement and fidgeted with desire.

Their faces were like open books. Eyes wide open in disbelief. Was she real? Would they get to touch her? Who would be the lucky one?

The younger children who previously had  had the attention of the rugby team tried to break it up by running round in and out and shouting rude comments. They soon realised that this was more important than their games. They were being ignored so they drew back and hung around the periphery watching intently and creating a second audience. 

A group of people on the deck above leaned over the veranda and watched creating an enthralled  gallery.

At this point the manager of the team arrived with a camera and the lads jumped up to pose. They surrounded the girls like background scenery and smiled and joked while the camera flashed.

The team pleased the audience and entertained them by singing coarse rugby songs, not comparably to Irish love songs but the colleen didn't seem to mind. She was coming to the end of her second or third pint and was drunk with the liquor and the adoration.

The finale occurred with her chosen one when they stood up to kiss surrounded by the sportsmen and encouraged by comments like harder, press harder, more, more,longer, longer.

The Prologue

The team made their way to the vehicle deck strutting and jostling for positions. Some still singing - not together but each alone in some sort of competition to be , to be what? Bigger, louder, more noticed, sexier? I don't think they even knew.

The two Irish colleens tottered behind them. Miss red skirt in the highest, strappiest sandals I've ever seen. Her eyes looked dulled by drink now and she clung unsteadily to her friend.

They watched as the glass door swung shut in front of them almost knocking them over. Not one of the rugby team even looked around or waved. They turned around and joined the younger children who had followed them. They smiled sadly and walked away.

Inspiration

 So Manda Scott we need a new genre do we? Give me a break. First it "Misery Memoirs" then it was "Up-lift" stories. Why, why, why should my writing fit into a genre?  I suppose it is coming from the publishers and since the publishers receive more submissions than they can even read why should they determine what we should read? Dare I suggest that they tell us what is popular via their sales and that is determined by their marketing. 

 I've never been a push over. I detest being told how or what to write. I write from my soul and if that lives outside all the boxes then so be it.

Taking a step sideways this morning when reading Mslexia I realised something. I have been writing for a long time, forty years or so. I have written and self published a semi-autobiographical book, a dozen or so short stories, numerous poems, some articles and had letters to magazines and newspapers published.

I am not disabled. I haven't been in an accident. My family is fine. My witch has communicated all she can.   I am writing fewer and fewer posts on my three blogs. Does writing rely on unusual experiences? I have never been proficient at writing about make believe or fantasy. 

Here I am back to Arnold Bennet, "the interestingness of ordinariness".

Why would anyone want to read about me now, at 80, sitting in front of the TV and worrying about the state of the world politically and environmentally? I can't even go on demos, or contribute to an informative magazine like I used to. I just click like on Facebook and know I can't do more.