I thought I could Write

   I have just read "The Haunting of Briarswood " by Gavin Hayes. I thought I could write until I read this story. Thank you, Writers' Forum for publishing this and showing us / me how a winning story should read.  I would like to think that I can be inspired by this brilliant writing rather than being discouraged. 

Iris visits Nana's Again

It was the summer holidays again and Iris was staying at her Nana's in Brittany.  As usual Nana read Iris a bedtime story every night. The big book of fairy tales was always on the bedside table and Iris liked to choose the story. Often, very often Iris fell asleep before the end of the story. Tonight, was no exception.

Then as happened once before Iris felt a heavy weight on her feet. She sat up and saw a big black cat. 

" Hello, Pussy" she said "it's you again". 

"I don't know what you are talking about," said the cat. "My name is Sooty."

"That's right," said the witch who seemed to materialise from nowhere. "He's mine. I have come to ask for your help. But I hope you will be a little more careful than the last time we met."

"What do you mean?" asked Iris.

"Well, you did sit on a crocodile, and I had to rescue you."

"You know very well it was dark and, and---"

"Yes, yes, never mind all that I need your help."

"OK, tell me what you want me to do first then I will think about it."

"Oh, really, and I thought you were eager to help folks. You didn't hesitate when the Owl and the Pussy Cat asked for your help."

"If I had known how dangerous it was, I might have refused, and I didn't get to the wedding anyway, and I so wanted to eat with a runcible spoon."

"Yes, yes we all want to do that. This proposition is much more important than a silly wedding."

"I'm listening," said Iris putting on her dressing gown and sitting on the bed and stroking Sooty who rolled onto his back so that Iris could tickle his tummy.

"This is important. It's about female solidarity. You know of course about Snow White who is lying in a glass case and Sleeping Beauty who is in a similar predicament. Then there is Rapunzel who is stuck in a tower. What do they all have in common?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me. I am sure they are not waiting for me to --"

" They are waiting for a prince to waken them with a magical kiss and then marry them."

"That's OK, isn't it? I mean then they will live happily ever after."

"Don't be silly. Their lives will be miserable. Oh, sure they will have fancy weddings and white dresses. Then what. Boring, that's what. They won't be able to do anything. They will have servants who do everything for them. They will not be able to cook or sew or paint or write or garden or climb trees or even just run."

"Not even swim in the lake?"

"Certainly not. Now are you willing to help?"

"Sure, but I don't see what I can do."

"First of all, you need to get dressed. Wear your boots and an anorak. I will take you on my broom stick to release Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Rapunzel is a bit more complicated, but I'll explain about her later." 

Iris dressed as she was told and the witch said," Now jump on my broom stick. Sooty will wait here until we return. Hold tight."

"How did we get up here? ", said Iris as they were gilding over treetops under the stars.

"Have you forgotten? I am a witch. Now hold tight and do as I say."

Iris held on very tightly as she was afraid of heights and didn't dare to look down. 

"We are going to land soon by the glass case where Snow White is asleep. I expect the seven dwarfs will appear."

"What are you talking about? Seven dwarfs? What are they going to do?"

"I expect they will want Snow White to go back to their cottage and wait hand and foot on them again. Well, let me tell you that is not going to happen not if I have anything to do with it."

The witch skilfully landed the broom stick really close to the glass case. Iris fell off onto the ground then immediately leapt to her feet. She didn't want the witch to scold her again.

"So now what?" asked Iris who was beginning to enjoy the adventure. "What's that singing?"

"Here they come Hey, Hoeing. They are in for a big surprise when they find out that they will have to find another slave. That will put an end to their hey hoeing."

"Who are they?" asked Iris.

"The seven dwarfs of course. Don't you remember.? Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. All their silly names."

" Oh yes, Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy and Sneezy. So, what is wrong with them? "

"You are joking. How would you like to cook and clean and shop and wash and iron for all seven of them."

"Oh well when you put it like that."

" Now what we have to do is open this glass case and waken Snow-White."

"How are we going to do that?" said Iris.

"Have you forgotten I am a witch. I have lots of spells. I just have to find the right one."

"Do you have a spell book," asked Iris.

"No. I usually look on my computer in spell check. OK got it. How to open a glass case containing a Princess. This should work for Sleeping Beauty too. Do you think you can deal with the Seven Dwarfs. Don't take any non-sense from them just tell them very firmly to go away and find someone else to keep house for them.".

Iris felt very important but also nervous, but she climbed a near-by tree. (Iris was very good at climbing trees) She looked out from her position and saw the SDs.

"Cooey, Cooey, hey look up here in the tree. "

The dwarves came running and stood around the tree and looked up.

They all shouted at once. Well, all except Sneezy who kept sneezing at frequent intervals and Bashful who hid behind the tree. 

They called out, "Who are you? What's your name? What do you want? Why are you in that tree? "

"Stop shouting. I am not deaf and if you all speak at once I can't hear anyone. Listen carefully because this is very important. I suggest you sit down and open up your ears. Winnie, you all know Winnie, don't you? "

"Yes, we all know her she's 'orrible she can do magic, "Doc said and they all began muttering. 

"Shush, shush and listen to me. Winnie is going to open the glass case and Snow-white will waken up and be lifted out of the case."

"Hurrah, hurrah," shouted all the dwarves at once. 

"Will you be quiet and listen," shouted Iris. "Now I know that Snow-white has been your house-keeper and chief cook and bottle-washer--

At this point the Dwarves started muttering things like," She never had to wash no bottles, we don't drink do we lads? Certainly not and anybody who says we do is a liar."

"For Goodness' sake will you sit down and listen. "Now, when Snow-white gets out of the glass case she will not be your house-keeper, but she will go with Winnie to rescue Sleeping Beauty. Then together they will go to help Rapunzel. Is that clear?

Happy, Doc, Grumpy, Dopey, Bashful, Sleepy, and Sneezy".

The Saxophonist

 The Saxophonist 

There was a saxophonist who played around the local folk clubs. He was very ambitious. He dreamed that someday that he would play in Carnegie Hall. He tried everything he could think of to get his name known. He moved around the country playing in different venues. He was always well received but the big break didn't come until one day after he had played "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a promoter approached him and overed him a spot at the London Palladium. He couldn't believe his luck. Well, he didn't think it was luck after all he had worked damned hard for this success. Isn't there a saying that success is 80% hard work and 20% luck. 

So, his big night came, and his performance was faultless. He ended as usual with his signature piece, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". The audience went wild and requested an encore which he was delighted to give.

Since the show was televised offers and requests flooded in. He was spoiled for choice. But the upshot was that he was recognised by an American who offered him the opportunity he'd longed for, which he accepted without a second thought. 

He played a few venues to get himself used to new audiences and they him. Then the big one came. "Carnegie Hall." He walked out on stage to rapturous applause. He had decided to begin with his signature piece. He played the first few bars and then stopped. He couldn't remember the next note. He apologised. He explained what enormous pleasure it was to be playing in this venue. It had been his dream for so many years. He began to play again but faltered at the very same spot. He repeated his apology to the now restless audience. He tried again for a third time and failed again. This time the audience had had enough and booed him off the stage.

He left the stage dragging his sax behind him. He had never been so ashamed and disappointed in his whole life. how could he have let himself down like this. He had played that tune hundreds no thousands of times without a fault.

Somehow, he found his way back to the hotel where he was staying. His room was on the 25th floor. He got in the lift and pressed the button dragging the sax behind him too disappointed to put it in the case. The lift stopped, he exited, he opened the door to his room and went straight to the window, opened it and stood on the balcony. He looked down at the human insects below then he leaned over and fell to join them. He hit the pavement hard. As he lay dying the last thing, he heard was the ambulance playing his tune. Someday we'll meet upon a star, la la la la la la ----then he expired.

 

Sarah Stokes

 

Granny Stokes

Sarah walked slowly along the lane, not only because she was old and feeble and relied on her walking stick, no, there was another reason. It was because she was always on the lookout for a useful herb. This particular lane had provided an excellent harvest over the years. Today would be no exception.

Sarah stopped by the hedgerow and reached out to pick some luscious green leaves from a comfrey plant she knew well and dropped them into her basket.

She had gleaned and used during her lifetime all kinds of healing herbs and berries. Many of the villagers owed their good health to the vegetation in this particular habitat. This comfrey would make exactly the kind of healing balm that Mary Guthrie's husband needed. Sarah could see Ebenezer Guthrie this very minute; he was in the field stooping over his plough. She knew he had a very nasty laceration on his right forearm. He didn't know that she knew of course. It would have been careless to let him know that she prepared all the potions. No, his wife would slip across the Dobbins field after night fall, when he was in the inn and the children were asleep. Her hooded cloak would be well drawn over her face and she would tap-tap very quietly on the door and walk straight inside. Sarah continued her journey and wondered how much longer she should continue to help people. As she approached the village, she became aware that quite a crowd had gathered near the church gate. The bell clanged as Sarah entered the shop. Rachel greeted Sarah solemnly.

"Mornin' Sarah I 'specs you 'ave 'eard the news".

"Mornin' Rachel. No what's that then?"

"Molly from over Little Haslington has been named."

Sarah grasped the handle on her basket so that Rachel could not see her hands shaking. She eased her old bones onto the stool in the corner. She thought she might faint. Her voice trembled. "So, what-how- have-?? She asked in spite of herself for she dreaded the reply.

"They say as it'll be tomoro' ", said Rachel. "The ducking stool. That crowd outside. They are all a plannin' to go an' watch."

Sarah's blood ran cold. She adjusted the sacking in her basket to make sure that the leaves of comfrey could not be seen.

" They do say as she 'as made potions and whatnot for folk. That young whatsername who got with child told her ma as she'd taken somethin' she'd brewed. Her lost her baby which was what she wanted. Her mother dragged it out on 'er 'cos she almost bled to death."

Sarah clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering, but she thought that helonious root and cramp bark would have stopped the bleeding.

She must gather her wits.

"I don't think I'll be a watching," she stuttered. It took all her resolve to buy the salt that she had gone in for and walk to the door.

"They do say as there's one in this village," called Rachel as she was about to close the door. Sarah didn't trust herself to reply and she let the door go without turning round and pretending not to hear.

The crowd by the church gate was larger now and more vociferous. They sounded angry. Sarah would have like to hear what was going on, but she knew that she mustn't be seen. She skirted down the side of the shop and resolved to go by the smithy's instead of over the village green. As soon as she turned the corner, she knew it was a mistake. A crowd of children were playing there out of the sight of parental eyes. They spotted her straight away. Encircling her immediately they started to chant.

"Who are the witches? Where do they come from?"

Sarah found the strength from somewhere and shouted in a strangled high-pitched voice, "Johnny Price. I'll tell your mother! Sally Anne, shouldn't you be alookin' after your new baby?"

It seemed to work. They stopped chanting and looked sheepishly at each other. They turned and ran away leaving her very shaken.

As she turned towards the direction of her cottage, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her heart almost stopped and she broke out in a cold sweat.

It was only Esther Beardmore.

"Are you alright Granny Stokes? I could see the children were up to their tricks. Here take my arm. I'll walk along with you."

So, it wasn't her threats that had frightened the children, thought Sarah, they must have seen Ester approaching.

"No, no Esther," said Sarah, "You are more than kind. But really it is too dangerous now. You must have heard about----"

"But I feel so helpless, and you have taught me so much."

"If you really want to help, then take this comfrey. You know what to do with it. It's for Mary Guthrie's man. Hurry now, I am sure I'll manage. She gave her a little push to make sure that she would leave, for her own safety.

For the remainder of the journey Sarah felt as though she was walking through treacle, thick black treacle. As she passed the cottage of Isac Stone, she thought she saw the curtain twitch. Also, little Abe Weller was playing in the dirt but when he saw her, he ran into the house crying. After what felt like a lifetime, she finally reached her cottage.

Inside she as she was bending over the glowing embers of the fire, she pulled her shawl more tightly over her shoulders and shivered. She knew that she wasn't cold.

She sat down in her rocking chair and immediately her black cat leapt onto her knee. Stroking the soft fur, she knew that her talisman would have to go. It would be heart breaking; but she would have to do it.

She was aware after today, that it was she who had been named. This morning, when the children had teased her and called after her, it had felt ominous. That wasn't the worst. She could cope with that. They weren't evil and meant no real harm. After all, she had been present at most of their births---- delivered most of them. She was not afraid of their mother's either. They knew the value of her knowledge and always called on her skills when there was a laying out to be performed. The cat leapt off Sarah's knee. She had to do something quickly. She wasn't afraid of her own death, her own natural death but she didn't relish the idea of leaving her destiny in the hands of those villagers who had named her.

Rachel's words had been a warning of that she felt sure. After all, Rachel had benefitted from Sarah's knowledge many times; not only for herself but for her whole family. There had been that time when her daughter had remained barren after five years of marriage. She had come secretly to Sarah and been given a very special brew. It had worked of course, as did all her potions. And then there was that time---------

Sarah stopped. It was no use remembering all the people she had helped. They knew who they were, and Sarah knew that they would be too afraid to help her now. Suddenly Molly came into her thoughts. Should she go to the ducking tomorrow? Could she save Molly? Could she bare to watch her drown? Would being there prove her own innocence? Would not being there prove her guilt?

So many questions and not a single answer. She was the problem solver. Who was there to help her now that she so desperately needed it?

Her black feline stood by the door and mewed. Was that a tap-tap she heard? Someone wanting help no doubt, she thought as she lifted the latch and opened the door just a crack. There was no-one there. She opened the door wider. She was sure that she had heard something. The cat followed her as she walked to the gate and peered up and down the lane. Nothing. No-one. They both walked back and as she stopped and looked down to allow the cat to enter the cottage first, she noticed a tiny basket on the step. She could just about bend low enough, with the aid of her stick. The basket contained berries, small, very small, purple berries. Was that the only way out? Wouldn't that mean that they had won?

Sarah had never been one to give in. She had always been a fighter. "But I am 87," she said to the cat. "How many years have got left anyway?"

Another voice inside her asked," Who will assist with births and life after death procedures if I give in? Who will the women turn to?"

Then Sarah realised who had gathered the berries and placed them on her step. Esther had learned all she could now. Sarah had hoped to teach her more before she left this world, but the village needed a young healer now.

Sarah hoped, as she tipped the berries into the pan of water on the fire, that Esther would be discreet.

She made enough for the cat and herself.

The only thing that the villagers would be able to call her when they found her would be deceased.

Writing out of my experience

 

I have always been a pacifist and if I had ever been in the position of fighting in a war, I would have been a conscientious objector and, gone to prison. Writing out of my experience I deduced would therefore be writing from the opposite perspective.

I remember in 19405/6 I asked my mother why there was a house in the Cresent with hedges so high and thick that one couldn't see the house or into the garden. The reply was that the people who lived there were conchies. She then explained what a conscientious objector was. 

March 1915 somewhere on the Western Front

The mud is deep and thick. It is also frozen. The temperature has been below freezing for days. The men are dying like flies, not only from bullets or bombs or grenades but from flu. Spanish flu. They have no idea why it is called Spanish flu. German flu would have made more sense. All night long explosions are loud, and the night sky is occasionally lit up like fireworks but the two squaddies sharing a cigarette know otherwise.

"I can't stand this," says Tom.

"What choice have you got mate. It's not like you can hail a taxi and ----"

"Don't be daft man. I have heard of some blokes shooting themselves in the foot. They get sent home."

His mate Jack says, “I suppose that’s one way out. I am too much of a coward to do that.”

Tom asks, “What brought you here anyway?”

“Me Dad I suppose. And the neighbours. And the newspapers. And the bloody posters. I couldn’t sleep. All I could hear was, "coward, coward, coward”. So 'ere I am. In the trenches. O' course, I’m frightened as well. I am terrified. I write home as often as possible because I am here to make my father proud of me. He told me that if I didn’t sign up, he would disown me. I love me Dad and didn’t want him to be ashamed of me. He and me mother took me to the station (me mother was crying o' course). They wanted to give me a family send off. He actually shook my hand. “

“I wonder if he would be proud of you if you could see you now, soaked to the skin, freezing cold, dying of hunger and shivering from fear.”

“Well, that’s the last of the ciggies. And there’s no food left. “

“What the bloody hell is that.”

“ShShSh. Don’t move. Someone is creeping along the trench. I can just see his helmet. It’s a bloody Gerry.”

“I can’t kill another man, Gerry or no Gerry.”

“You must. If we don’t kill him, he'll kill us.”

The German faced them and pointed his rifle.

The squaddies faced the German and aimed their rifles at him.

Just then a grenade exploded in the trench at the same time as the two squaddies and the German fired their guns.

Jack’s mother opened the door to receive the telegram.

“Well, are you satisfied now,” she said to his father, “Are you proud? Here you read it.”

Of course, it said,” KILLED IN ACTION”.

Last Line First

 Last Line First

I knew I had flaws. Despite my vanity and pride, my quick temper, my eccentricities and rapacious literary ambitions, I believe Paul had truly loved me. He had been an exciting and wonderful lover. Yes, Paul was the love of my life, the one who would for ever live in my heart.

As for my feminist leanings, the remark he had once made that he never objected to my "hobbies", nor ever attempted to confine me in any way, was perfectly true. At least that is what he told himself.

He was a musician and at first, I attended all his concerts and in truth some rehearsals too. I even flew back from Italy, where I was on holiday, to hear him perform the Bruch violin concerto. But, early on I recognised that there was a danger of my life revolving around his. At first, I managed to write in the margins as it were during his rehearsals. Writing, unlike music is silent and moreover can be done discretely. There was no paraphernalia. Unlike the amount of baggage, he hawked around. It wasn't just the instruments (he played the French horn and the trumpet as well as the fiddle for a time) it was the bags of music, and the music stands and sometimes amps and mics. At first no-one knew that I was a writer not even him.

I am not sure how it came about but people started to ask,” What are you writing?” and “I hope that is not a crit of the band.” and “Are you a journalist?”

 I would look up, smile and continue to write. Then I thought why not say more. So sometimes I'd say, “I am writing a short story.” or “It's my diary.”  Next, I elaborated, and I'd say,” It's the last chapter of my novel. I have to get it to the publisher.”

I had to change my replies because people started to want to know more and they would ask, "What's it about? And “What kind of novel is it? Detective? Historical? Love story? “

That did it. I had a light bulb moment. I asked myself some questions. “What in God's name was I doing? I wanted to be a writer. I had an office in my house with a damn good desk, a bookcase full of reference books, a telephone at my elbow, and even a computer which gave me access to Wikipedia.”

At about that time ten copies of my autobiography which I had self- published arrived. Of course, Jack knew nothing about it. He hadn't seen me writing it, nor had he been aware that I was communicating with a publisher. When I received the first copies, I put them on my well stocked shelves of books, and he never noticed. That all changed when my friend, Janet, suggested that she wanted to help me to take it from the page to the stage. She did most of the writing here, but I suggested which parts I thought would work and she wrote them. Janet had written a couple of plays and performed them around Liverpool and Manchester to great acclaim. We had a mutual friend who had produced and directed her plays and was willing to do the same for me. Keith was gay and a really good friend who frequently accompanied me to exhibitions and theatre productions. On one occasion when I told Paul that I was going to Manchester with Keith he seemed upset and objected. 

“You know Keith's gay, don't you? “I said. 

To which he replied, “Does he have a certificate to prove it?”

He was a good producer and director. We were lucky enough to perform my play in a prestigious theatre and it was well attended. The audience were very appreciative. Jack didn't appear. He knew the date, the venue and the performance time. A huge bouquet arrived at the theatre from him for me. Later, he didn't ask about the performance, but he did ask if I had received the bouquet. He wanted praise for his exceptional thoughtfulness.

I managed at last, to end the relationship. For now, I had become what I had always longed to be, a woman of letters.

Quote -Georgia O'Keefe

I wrote this in 2011 

One works because it is the most interesting thing one knows to do. The day one works are the best days. On the other days one is hurrying through the other things one imagines one has to do to keep one's life going. You get the garden planted. You get the roof fixed. You take the dog for a walk.You spend the day with a friend...You may even enjoy doing such things...But always you are hurrying through these things with a certain amount of aggravation so that you can get at the paintings again because that is the high-in a way it is what you do all the other things for...The painting is like a thread that runs through all the reasons for all the other things that make one's life.

This applies to me except the ' work' has changed from weaving to painting, to writing and now it seems to be gardening. And also for the past ten years learning French.

 The interesting idea which has come through is that the first quote comes first. No matter what the 'work' is I have to be alone and when I go to bed I like to know that I have achieved.