Prelude

Sitting on the train today, feeling luckier than a leprechaun sliding up a rainbow towards a pot of gold, I happened across a story in the recesses of my brain.

The Bear Story

Before I tell you this tale, I must tell you of its origins. When I was a good deal smaller than you are now, my Dad took my sister and I camping. Neither of us could sleep, scared of the bears which roam so freely in the New Forest. And this story was born. From then on, it became a firm favourite for holidays, journeys, and unsure moments, told and retold.

I’m sure this story altered with time and retellings, and in its many forms it is an integral part of me. A part which I try now to meld into one, passable version that I may share it with you:

Once upon a time, deep within a thick forest, stood a cave. And in the cave, lived a big, shaggy-haired, bear.

“Wuurrrgh!” Said the bear, stretching as he awoke from his sleep. “I’m hungry!”

So the bear got up, and went to look in his larder see what he could find for breakfast.

But there was nothing there save a little butter and a solitary nutmeg.

“Urrr!” he said, sadly. “I guess I shall not be having breakfast after all.” And as his belly rumbled, he added “and I’d better go and find something for supper, otherwise I shall be very hungry indeed!

So the bear gathered up his basket and set off, out of the cave and into the forest.

He hadn’t gone very far before he stopped and sniffed. Mushrooms! Sure enough, a little way off, on an old fallen log, there were 3 big, soft mushrooms, and not far from that, sat a clump of delicate yellow fungi.

“Urr!” he said, in amazement. “Bears like mushrooms.” And the bear followed the mushroomy trail, gathering them all up into his basket, until he came to a huuuuuge tree trunk, so huge in fact that it blocked his path. He was about to go alter course and go around i, but his ears pricked, catching the low hard-working sound of bees. Glancing up, he saw a hive, hanging from the lower branches.

“Urr!” he said. “Honey! Bears like honey!”

So with that, the bear quickly scaled the tree and, using his big, sharp claws, sliced away a section of the hive, its honeycomb dripping with honey.

The bear placed it in his basket, next to the mushrooms.

“Mushrooms. And honey. Honey and mushrooms.” Mused the bear. “Bears like them, but there’s not a lot that you can make with mushrooms and honey, butter, and a solitary nutmeg. It won’t be very filling.”

So the bear carried on with his walk, keeping an eye out for anything that might be good to eat.

The bear walked, and sniffed, and walked some more, until the sun rose high above the tree-tops. His stomach growled.

He was just about to turn around, and make do with a plate of mushrooms for dinner, when he spied a fallen nest, cradling 6 blue-ish eggs. One of them had smashed, but the bear gingerly rested the others in his basket.

“Bears like eggs.” He said. And then he surveyed his finds. Mushrooms, and eggs. Eggs and mushrooms. And honey. What can I do with mushrooms and eggs?” The bear thought for a moment, and it came to him. “I shall make an omelette, a honey and mushroom omelette!”

And that, is exactly what he did. And though it was rather sticky, it was very nice indeed.

Coming At You Like A Shark With Knees!

Over the last few days, I have oft been experiencing a paradoxical state dependant associative phenomenon. That is, déjà vu. See, the coming weekend shall see a repeat of The Week That They Were Writers. Only this time, it shall be bigger, and much much better. This time, undeterred by the 17hour journey (a result of not having a driver among us) five of us shall ascend upon the unsuspecting peoples of Ardanaeskan, armed with laptops, warm waterproof clothing, enough tea to quench the thirsts of thousands, and a rather warped collective humour. I can’t wait.

In the mean time, I should really stop watching star trek and knuckle down to some work, before getting hopelessly drunk with old friends as I stop off in Leeds on the way up North.

The Sky You Were Born Under.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how incredibly bloody lucky I am. At times, with things not going the way I had envisioned, these thoughts were somewhat forced, accompanied by pangs of guilt over ridiculous self-pity. And at times, the same thoughts came in jolts of bubbling, giggly ecstasy .

With all this, amongst strangely urgent dealings with assignments, bills, pub-outings and tulips, has come the search for a summer project. Complicated by both finances and the possibility of spending part of said project with my sister, BRIF is looking, for today, like the most likely candidate.

I've also been spending much free time with a group of awesome religion/philosophy students, and one of our many regular debates has been this: is there such a thing as a selfless act?

Thoughts, anyone?

swing-step with the planets', or, ‘tis the season for the emo post’

With several hours to kill between lectures, and the sun shining in earnest I turn my back on the library this afternoon and head for the wood-encapsulated lake. How anyone can feel uninspired with learning in a setting like this I do not know. I spend a while reciting a few stories aloud as I meander along the water’s edge (much to the surprise and amusement of the few others wandering the path). I’m walking slowly, because it’s beautiful, and I don’t want it to end. And then I sit for a while, musing over the day’s chance encounters with a dozen or so friends. And it occurs to me, not for the first time recently, just how lucky I am. And just how much I’d miss the place if I ever had to leave.

I hope it doesn’t come to that.

I seem at the moment to be in a state of perpetual calamity, and with it a never-ending roller-coaster of highs and lows. Frankly I don’t know how anyone around me puts up with it. I don’t know how I'm putting up with it. Most of the time I’m getting nothing done, at least not with any efficiency, which is in part why there has been so little bloggage of late. It’s also probably contributing to the lack of coherent conclusion of this post.

Perhaps an evening with Terry Pratchett will sort things out. At least for a moment.

Good Things

Rachel tagged me for this, and though it took me a while to figure any of them out, there *are* at least 7 things I love about the world. The knowledge of this has me greatly reassured.

7 things I truly love about the world , in no particular order:

1. Movies which, meandering or fast paced have something gritty within them that makes me, ultimately, think.

2. Mythologies and the way they shape the tangible Earth. Something I’m totally obsessed with at the moment.

3. Walking (by the sea or through a forest especially), with nothing but my thoughts for company.

4. A decent cup of coffee after a period of good solid work.

5. Watching something shift inside a person as they cement something new in their minds.

6. Deep conversations with close friends, which last until we slip into the unconsciousness of dreams.

7. Live music, whatever the style, whatever the setting. There’s just something about it that’s never captured in recordings.

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tagging shall follow in an edit shortly.

Lost In The Sea Of Stories

It’s National Storytelling Week this week; a fitting occasion to re-enter the blogosphere and tell of the host of oral-tale-telling events I shall be running this semester. However, as close as events come, planning is still in its infancy. In other creative news, The Writers’ Descent #3 is set to run this Easter. The line-up of fools undertaking the challenge is as yet uncertain, but it promises to be every bit as productive/fun as its predecessors.

Despite a week free of academic constraints, I have done little more than dabble at writing, and certainly have completed no major chunks of prose, for I have been rather distracted. The birth of Sævör, my first LARP character, and along with it, costume window-shopping and the discovery of obscure Norse legend has stolen much of my attention, and even that has been frequently interrupted by the acquisition of the extended Lord of the Rings dvds, and second hand copies of the first two Edge Chronicles novels. In short, I’ve been lost in worlds of deep myth, so much so that I’ve been unable to create my own.

That shall change however, in the following week (also free of academia). At least I hope it shall, for, wonderful as myth-encapsulation is, I'm starting to feel like I'm in an unshakeable trance, and it's slightly disconcerting. I plan to shape the unseen horrors of Meenu into something presentable. I shall also be working on learning materials to perform, and if I can work out how to do it, might even post up some audio clips.

---

I shall endeavour, over the course of the week, to post the obligatory new year posts, albeit rather belatedly.

Christmas Letter

‘Twas a dark and stormy afternoon (I jest not) as the scribe sat down, mug of tea beside her, to write a letter to her fairy godmother. Sleet and hail lashed alternately at the window, filling the room with a soggy drum-roll in place of light. Atmospheric, she thought. A bloody nuisance, because writing in the gloom can, as every writer knows, give you a stonking headache, but atmospheric all the same.

Dearest Fairy Godmother,

she began.

I hope that this yuletide greeting finds you in good health and spirits.

She paused, sucking on the end of her pen, pondering a decent beginning, because Fairy Godmothers are the sort to notice these things. The standard launch into the mundane trivia of life just wouldn’t do. She wondered whether the Fairy Godmother would appreciate sensationalised tales of Washing-up Mountains, of Essays Worse than Death, of Extra-curricular Quests which suck the very life from you until you wonder, as 100 school-kids pounce upon you, screeching wildly, why, exactly, you put your name forward. No, she decided, perhaps not. Although it would be rather closer to the truth than might be imagined. And yet, she couldn’t tell of buses which never arrived on time, or relaxing evenings in the student union with new-found friends; it would not make for a thrilling read. It would, in fact, be almost as heinous as ’all going swimmingly, here’ or some such tosh. But that was the thing. Apart from essays of doom, and organisational headaches, it was going swimmingly. Even the Attack of the Minors had been fun. They’d been terrified by her spectre-voice.

The writer sighed. It wasn’t easy, living up to creative expectations.

Outside, the sky had darkened further, tendrils of moist, black cloud reaching towards the warm, candle-light glow of the city’s buildings. Pressing her nose against the pane, she peered across the rooftops at the barely visible wind-bowed trees on the skyline, and shuddered; anyone out there was in for a rough ride. The phrase ‘weather here gloomy as ever’ flashed across her mind for an instant. She banished it to the cerebral recycle bin.

Back at her desk, she contemplated sketching out the characters in her new life – from the dumpy lecturer who’d trail off into a critique of fantasy novels and star-trek incidents at every opportunity, to the technophobic tutor who had, at the start of term, blown the projector instead of switching on the lights. But there were libel issues. Her friends might have fewer objections, perhaps, but the writer was sure she couldn’t do them justice.

She stared into ethereal space, awaiting that crashing block of inspiration. None came. She thought upon Christmassy things, the joy of which she hoped to bundle into her message. She thought of mince pies, and mistletoe and laughter, and enough snow to merit the season, without delivering hazard to the community. She thought of fireside tales and warmest wishes.

Warmest Wishes,

She wrote, hoping that the rest of her Christmas tableau would ooze wordlessly from the page. Fairy Godmothers got that sort of thing, right?

She scrutinised the page. Pretty standard stuff, and not nearly as informative as she’d hoped. Still, it’s the intent that counts. She read it again, and wasn’t satisfied. But the post would be collected any minute, and she still had to find her scarf, and the stamps, and...

She signed.

Your Fairy Goddaughter

And, in a flash of revelation, quickly but carefully inserted one last line above ‘warmest wishes’:

All going swimmingly here.

Perspective Demo

Everyone knows the story of Red Riding Hood, right? And most of us would agree that the wicked wolf meets a deservingly horrible end. But what if I told you this version of events instead?

(credit to Richard Oxenham for the ending paragraphs!)

Maximus’ stomach growled viciously, for all the rabbits had been caught in the humans’ snares, and there was little left for an old wolf to eat. He’d eaten so little, in fact, that his ribs showed through his unkempt fur.

He’d tried rooting through the waste-bins of the people’s cottages, for the food they didn’t want, but he was spotted, and one of them aimed a gun at him. The shot had made such a racket that Maximus’ heartbeat was racing for hours. He’d avoided their buildings for quite a while after that, but it was getting to the point that, if he didn’t eat something, he would surely die.

He wandered along with his nose low to the ground, desperately sniffing for a tasty morsel, but there was none. Until, that is, he caught a whiff of something sweet and juicy. Instinct kicked in, and his snout followed the trail, weaving in and out of the trees until he reached a clearing.

Maximus skidded to a halt; in front of him stood a charming little cottage, with roses trailing over the doorway, and a thickly thatched roof. And on the windowsill, sat a steaming pie, with gravy bubbling from the top. Oh, it smelt good. Maximus’ mouth watered, as he cowered behind a particularly large tree. There could be a man with a gun in there. For ages, Maximus slunk around the edge of the clearing, getting hungrier and hungrier until he could bear it no longer.

Quickly, he darted out from the trees and leapt at the window-ledge to snatch the pie in his teeth.

Clonk.

A heavy pan swung out of nowhere at the wolf’s head, and he crashed to the floor in a heap

“That’ll teach you, coming after my pie!” the old woman exclaimed, shaking her fist at him angrily.

Dazed, the wolf tried to crawl away, but the old woman had hitched up her skirt and launched herself towards him, raining him with blows as she chased him towards the ring of trees.

Now, Maximus would have preferred to slip away, tail between his legs, even if it meant giving the old lady the satisfaction of victory, but that was not going to be an option; she had murder in her eyes.

Maximus weaved in-between trees, avoiding her heavy swings and soon enough, the overweight woman began to tire. She began to wheeze and Maximus slowed and turned around.

“I’ll get you!” The old woman belched.

Maximus wondered how many pies she had ate to get that large. He wondered how many she could have shared. Maximus felt something snap inside him and the old woman began to resemble a giant, steak pie. Maximus barred his teeth, snarled and paced forward.

Workshop 1 Demo

This is material which I've written to use as a demo on detail/description for one of the storyquest workshops for years 5 and 6. First, we have the original nursery rhyme, followed by my descriptive interpretation:

There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children
she didn't know what to do;

She gave them some broth
without any bread;
She whipped them all soundly
and put them to bed.

There once was an old woman, though perhaps she was not so old, and it was life-experience which drew channels across her brow, greyed her hair and hunched her back over. For the woman lived in harsh conditions. In fact, she lived in a shoe. And it wasn’t even a nice shoe; not a large, fleece-lined boot, nor one of the latest converse with the pictures printed on the sides. No, the old woman lived in a second-hand running shoe, with dirt engrained in the surface, and a greasy sweat-line on the inner walls, which gave the air a taste of stagnant lake-water. She’d had to plug up a hole in the toe-cap, with lint and sticky-tape, and the old shoe still wasn’t waterproof, so that when it rained, her feet went ‘schllllluup’,‘schllllluup’ as she walked across the floor. It was not a nice place to live. And to make matters worse, the woman was trying to support her exceptionally large family – seven children in all – and each child seemed to demand a larger slice of her pitiful burger-flipping wage than the last, until she barely had enough spare to put food on the table.

The eldest child had reached the end of compulsory education, but rather than enter the world of work to help his mother, he chose to study marine biology at university, and spent his days examining sand-worms under a microscope. And not once did he offer his mother a portion of his student loan. The younger children followed his selfish lead, and whensoever they stumbled upon a perfectly rounded stone, or a bat-shaped stick, none would allow their siblings to join their improvised games.

Of course, the woman did not complain, for she wanted the best for her offspring, but it filled her with sadness to see that she had raised such a selfish brood.

Every evening, the family sat around the table on the eight mismatched chairs, to a meagre supper of grey, watery broth. On Sundays, there was a thin slice of bread each, too. One evening, which was not a Sunday, the woman placed eight bowls around the table. It was hot, because having blocked up the hole in the toe, there is not much ventilation in an old, greasy shoe, and the woman was flustered from the effort of cooking.

“Dinner’s ready!” she called, and her eight children crashed greedily to the table.

The eldest, who had had a particularly rough day at university, looked down at his bowl, disgusted.

“Gruel, again? Why can’t we have something else to eat?”

“Yes, Mama, why can’t we?” hollered the little ones.

And the surly middle child, she threw down her spoon in protest, crying “I’m not eating that!”

Now, the old woman had, as you can imagine, had quite enough of her children’s demanding squawks and bawling, and I’m sorry to say that she lost her temper.

“Enough!” She shrieked, reaching for the nearest object, which happened to be the still-oily broth pan, and wielding it high above her head.

The children scarpered, for they saw the rabid look in their mother’s eyes, and they were scared, but in the confines of the shoe there was no escape, for even the hole had been blocked off, and inevitably she caught up with each of them, so that the dull ‘thwack’, ‘thwack’ ‘thwack’ing of seven long, hard beatings filled their humble home for quite some time before she sent each and every one of them to bed without their brothy supper, in the hopes that they’d be a little more grateful in the future.

She Aten't Gone.

Besides academic writings, and material for the StoryQuest event which I'm co-hosting, I've had little time for writing. There is one piece I keep coming back to, which haunts my mind during my waking moments. It's not finished, because it hurts to write it. And for a while, I considered posting the beginning of it on here, but I have decided against it a) because I would probably lose any readership/friends/chance of forming relationships that I had, if the story enters your head, and b) because until it has an ending, I'm not sure you can get the full picture. It's supposed to end up as a feel-good piece, somehow.

So, I hope you can forgive me for the lack of material. I have not disappeared, nor have I stopped writing, it's simply that life has, as it inevitably does, got in the way.

Best of wishes.

Inspiration?

This piece is to accompany this, as a birthday tribute to Rich:

Toshi stood rigidly beside his father, paint box in hand. He was supposed to be concentrating on the brush strokes, watching the careful form of the trees, the sweeping kimono of women, all captured in perfect balance with coloured dyes.

They were not his colours.

When he was alone, his eyes could see. They saw the world as it had become. Alone, the colours of the garden muddied, the kimonos aged and faded, and the trees, burned. At night, his haunts were ravaged by Akuma, rising from the lake, tearing up the roots of his people. At night, Toshi cried.

But today, as all days, the colours brightened, for Japan remembered the world as it should be. The women floated along the water’s edge, the trees rustled alongside the calming ripple of the crystal waters, and all was well.

Journey For Journey's Sake

Gaṇeśa sat back against the rock and smiled. It was warm, now that he had passed through the cloud which enveloped the mountain base, and the sun tingled against his weathered skin. They said he was elephant, but today, he was lithe and thin, although he had worn a sheen of sweat by the time he came to rest. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Slowly, still smiling, Gaṇeśa closed his eyes. It had been a good climb, one which he’d felt with joy as his bandy muscles had strained and burned. Indra and the others had laughed at his plans to climb the mountain.

“Ha! Old man, you’d never make it! Your hide would wither before you reached the top! Besides, why go to all that trouble, when everything you ever wanted is right at the tip of your fingers here?”

For the Gods were growing lazy and complacent; when the mortals place their everything upon your plate, you have no place for toil or worry. But Gaṇeśa was discomfited with gluttony, beginning to miss the humble serenity of mortal flesh. And so, he climbed.

They said that elephant would shift your obstacles. They were mistaken. Oh, he might help you to remember the drink-hole, but you’d have to walk the distance on your own two legs.

Deep within the silence, the methodic crunch of tired footfall wound its way up the mountainside. Gaṇeśa stretched his legs out before him, and watched the path, though it would be a good while yet before the climbers were in sight. The cloud was thicker now, forming a thick wet blanket, and the footsteps shuffled along uneasily, feeling for the worn tread of the path beneath them. Gaṇeśa remembered the choking of the cloud – though it had been thinner then – hitting his lungs. His hand twitched. How easy it would be to wipe the sky clean. But the sun tingled against his skin, and he remembered the climb. No.

After a while, Gaṇeśa tore his gaze from the white world below and stood. There was a tree a little way over the hill, and bound to be some deadwood for a fire to welcome them.

Write A Summer Memory/The Newspaper

“Sleep at all?” Tess queried, as Becki swung herself into a chair, clutching a thick black coffee in one hand, and the group’s newspaper in the other.

“Nah. You?”

Nobody had; the tremors from the Qiryat Shmona hits had rippled beneath them incessantly.

“No fire after cake tonight guys, Hadas reckons they could see it from the border.”

“But-”

“I know. At least they’ve not closed the moar-don though. And I’ll open the pub a bit earlier.”

A few of them nodded. Nobody had the heart to complain.

“May I?” Jorge, biting into a hard-boiled egg, reached for the paper.

“Go ahead.”

Becki’s eyes fixed on the dense black letters as he unfolded the pages. “33 Dead” the ink announced, “in latest hits”, and below that, in angry lettering “Troops Retrieve Comrades After Surprise Attack.”

The pair exchanged looks. Some of their friends had crossed the border in uniform.

It went on. “Lebanese Make Death Threats Towards Minister”, “Tel Aviv Swamped As People Flee”. Page two discussed the economic effect upon kibbutzim of the north, forced by fire or fear to shift south, abandoning their crops and livelihood.

There was talk here, too, of the risk being too great. Several families were staying in the city with their friends, and the roads were empty of the usual camaraderie.

Becki’s stomach clenched, forcing acid coffee to her throat as Jorge turned to page three. His face greyed as they scanned the Fallen Soldiers page for familiar grins. The print was bad, hardly a tribute to those it remembered, and they had to look hard at each face, just to be sure. Becki’s eyes flicked across the final faces, trembling in horrified relief.

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This is the first, shortest, of 6 random war-experience things that my flatmate prompted last night. The others, when I have the emotional stamina to complete them, may appear.

I don't recommend vivid emotion flashbacks.

Fragments

Mannu crashed against the wall, grateful for its solidarity. They were shouting, again; voices spasmed through his brain, sharp, gashing at his thoughts, but fuzzy, so that when he tried to focus on them, it hurt his eyes.

On the field, the others shrieked as they chased one another around the swings. He tried to focus on them, instead, but they moved so fast that their bright shapes formed a web across his eyes. He looked away, tried to wipe his vision clean, but his hands were ineffectual.

Still, the voices ran rampant, louder and louder as he fought to shut them out. They were strong, and they could see the scars they’d made upon his mind. Sometimes, he would trap them, build blockages they could not pass but they were too quick, this time. The voices coursed through a weak point in his mind. They spread like flame dropped onto oil, their harsh pulsing tones scratching at his limbs ‘til he was forced to move with them to lessen the force.

“Bloody kid’s doing it again!”

“Well, stop him, you heard what She said this morning, it’s bad for him to get into the cycle”.

“Mannu! Mannu, Challoo; let’s go! Uppa; get up!”

Somewhere above him, a voice, all alone, formed abstract words. He knew that voice. Perhaps it could save him, but it was too far away, and the other voices had hold of him now; they’d never let him reach up there and grasp at help. Silently, he cried, convulsing with the voices as they tightened their grip.

A rough hand grasped at his arm and pulled. The one-voice was reaching down to him! For a second, the voices paused, and he could hear the world tick by, but their talons still clutched at him, stifling his voicebox, stiffening muscles; it was all he could do to drag his eyes towards the hand for half a moment. The voices dragged his focus to the ground and resisted the pull of the distant one-voice and its solid form.

He felt his body being pulled up and across the floor. His heel snagged against the path and bled; he couldn’t pick it up, couldn’t straighten and pull away, couldn’t acquiesce. The voices screamed a siren of war. It encompassed him. He barely noticed as the hand let go and he, a dead weight, fell back against the wall, almost foetal. And the voices trilled their victory.

The one-voice stumped away and Mannu lay there, breathing in short, desperate bursts. The coloured web changed shape and hue before his eyes, into an organised lattice of cream on porous reds, stacked one line after another. He felt its grain beneath his fingers, craters so big the could swallow him whole. Would they? The voices buzzed excitedly as his fingertips explored, pushing deeper into the crevices as they tested the limits, out of his control. Nothing, so his hands worked on, creeping slowly across the web of lines and then slap, seeing if they could be caught out. His palms itched from the force, but they wouldn’t be stopped. He had to know if he’d be pulled through. Slap. He had to know.

“Mannu.”

Something touched the back of his hand as it reached the wall once more. The voices crashed to a halt in frozen rage.

Her eyes hovered at a spot above his shoulder, their grey sheen catching his attention.

“Teek-hai – you ok?”

The voices stared at the unwavering grey, waiting to rebel. No commands, but the grey lingered, indifferent, inescapable.

Her palm extended towards his as she watched the others play – did she notice? And his fingers found their strength. After a moment she stood, and he stood with her. Together, haltingly, they walked away

On the night train to nowhere

Abhaya stared hard at the underside of the bunk, where the abrasive snoring of her grandmother filled the carriage. It irritated her, though she felt remorse immediately she realised this. Her Grandparents, and their parents before them, were everything that she was, they had built her world from nothing.

That was the trouble. Something of her unseen self prickled just below the surface, trying to communicate with her voice, her limbs. But she couldn’t allow it to get out; they wouldn’t understand.

How could a good, honest family understand that she wanted to leave? There was a future for her, in the business, as there had been for her father and her brothers, as there would be for her children. Hadn’t it, hadn’t they, provided her with everything she’d ever wanted? she tried to squash the little voice inside her, but she heard it all the same – No, not everything - and she’d throw it all away over some notion of importance and brain? A mere dream that she could barely hope to attain? Even of the men, it was rare to find an educated Narayanan.

A tall, lank-haired young man thrust open the carriage door and shuffled through, canister and plastic cups clattering against his side as he intoned his gentle mantra

“Chai, chai, kopi, chai, kopi madame? Chai?”

Abhaya’s stomach snarled. She was hungry, but the roti were packed in Grandmother Kelasai’s case. It would be impertinent to wake her. She reached inside the folds of her salwaar, for a few paise to exchange for a goblet of the harsh, sweet chai, always bitter with overbrewing, beneath the sugar, by the time it reached the cheaper carriages.

The chai-boy shuffled on, and Abhaya settled back onto her bunk, sipping at the scalding liquid. Night was approaching, and with it, came a harsh wind. Where she’d been glad of the gaping windows in the sticky heat of afternoon, she cursed them now.

The train pulled into a station with a scream of brakes, drowning out Grandmother Kelasai’s snarls and blocking, for a moment the hubbub of the platform. Then the doors opened and the fight onto the train began. The sound of four hundred feet deafened. Men barked instructions at each other and their families; instructions to push on, to move aside, or not to let go of the baby’s hand. Alongside the people came the spiced scent of hot, oily pakora and peanuts, the street hawkers’ cries crisp and inviting ‘hot, hot pakora, two rupee. Get it hot!’ The rickshaws honked a dozen different tunes, firing up their engines every now and then as they attracted customers heading into town.

Abhaya peered through the unclosable window at theplatform. Sharp frost bit at her brow. Outside, white breath-trails lightened the black night air. Food vendors and travellers alike huddled together against the cold, or his themselves beneath heavy woollen cloaks and rugs. An outstretched figure shifted beneath a pile of empty rice-sacks. Abhaya retreated, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders.

Her brothers would be out there, in another town. Every night battling the cold in the hopes of selling the best pakora in town for pittance. Most nights were good, a healthy profit and a hot-air vent for comfort. But some nights, well, you couldn’t have everything.

In the bunk opposite, a family had gathered. Mother and baby dozed, but in the grey light, three youngsters craned over a dog-eared book, tracing the eldest’s finger as it moved across the page.

Abhaya closed her eyes, as much to block out the jealousy as due to exhaustion.

And the train rattled on towards her future.

Beginnings

In a spur of inspiration and good intention, I have decided to use a book which I was given a while ago, to actually complete a piece of writing every single day, because, lets face it, I'm crap at ending things. It won't always be good. It won't always be long, but it will have a definite conclusion.

That's the plan. Let's see how long it lasts. Here's yesterday's:

Write about a rendezvous.

Old Sam’s fingers delicately brushed the top of the pocked, weathered stone, just once, before he half knelt, half fell – for his knees weren’t what they used to be and they just wouldn’t bend - to the mound before it.

He stared, a moment of distrust clouding his eyes in a blur of velvet hair and petal scented skin and laughter. But in an instant, the memories were pushed back to the corners of his mind by the present, which contained, right now, rather more mud and a lot less laughter.

She’d be disgusted by the smoke, caught in the weave of his coat where there had once been the scent of a scalding iron. He’d taken to wearing the same grey-green trousers for every visit, too, because the drop to the ground was heavy, and he didn’t possess half her skill when it came to stains. He could hear her nagging voice every time he pulled the cloth up from round his knees and fastened the belt. ‘You’re a disgrace, Samuel. Will you look at that! For the love of Jesus, put on something respectable!’ And inside, he’d grimace even whilst he smiled.

But he wouldn’t let it stop him turning up; they’d never let a harsh word stay between them, and he wasn’t about to succumb to intolerant misgivings now.

Slowly, righting his balance, Old Sam pulled up the foolish dandelion which had poked its head up at the base of the stone. She’d always liked them, she said. They reminded her of balmy days upon the pier, filled with exotic heat and joy. Nevertheless, they were weeds. They looked untidy, and he’d not have anyone think she were unwanted. Besides, as soon as the weeds grew, the louts with aerosols would make their move, just like they’d done to Edie’s grave the other week. Old Tom had been distraught for days; who could do such a thing? He scuffed the leathery patches of lichen away. There. then, edging closer to the stone, as much to have something to catch his balance on as for their privacy, he sat back on his haunches, gazing deep into the space between earth and headstone.

This was awkward. She’d always been the talkative one, and to be honest, he was at a bit of a loss. He crouched there for a while, steadying himself with one arm against her pillar. It was always like this. She’d want to talk, but there was sport to watch, or roses to tend to, and what business was it of theirs what number thirty two were up to, anyway? Still, he’d listen, with half an ear, and grunt accordingly, and he’d always been there. He was now.

Eventually, because the wind had picked up quite a chill and he feared he’d never stand again if it got into his joints, he stood up - slowly, for it was all his old body would allow. He’d come to no conclusions and made no confessions, but there wasn’t any need.

And with one, long look across his shoulder, he bade her adieu, until their next encounter

And So It Began

It began with a queue, which was longer than expected, though she couldn't work out why she hadn't guessed.

Phase two, began with smokescreens, and An Entrance from The Man Himself.

And then the words came. It was inevitable. There were stories as yet untold to the world. There was the release of wisdom and secrets, which fizzed statically across the room. And she soaked it p; the words, their hidden meanings, and the vibe.

And there was doodling in books to be treasured forever, befor ethe secrets, the potential held within the air, was released unto the streets.

She left with a new sense of togetherness and purpose, a thousand old ideas bubbling to the surface to meet with the new.

The next day she would buy a new notebook, for this new beginning. For it was blessed.

And so began the new life of a writer.

Unfinished

Pirates By Day...

A while ago, Rachel sent me this:

Hey you guys - I though this was an interesting review: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n09/jone01_.html

Personally I *love* typewriters and I feel prone to the kind of fetishization of them that the reviewer characterises as masculine... when I grow up and get rich I'm going to have shelves of the beautiful things, just wait. And all the staying-up-late, rolled-up sleeves and bourbon strikes a chord with me too, but all of that has clearly been encoded as masculine in our general culture too. Don't people often claim there's no need for lots of books with girl characters, because both boys and girls will identify with the boy leaders, but boys would never identify with a girl? The guy clearly thought there was no point concentrating on the 95% of typewriter users in 1930 who were female, because what they were doing wasn't so interesting (to him!!) and everyone would love to hear about Hunter S. Thompson and William S. Burroughs. Well, yes, but I want to read about the women too... and the male secretaries and the hard-drinking women as well - there had to be some! (Hint: Sarah, that's you and me. And Mum - I can never forget your advice not to let on that I can type. I'm still not convinced it's irrelevant yet.) Hmph!

Thoughts?

--
And it's had me thinking, on and off. I started formulating a reply the weekend that Pirates of the Caribbean came out, and it's festered, but refused to grow into something complete. I suspect it's a lengthly short story, but thus far, besides the notion of where it's going (a strange tale of imagination/dream-pirates and outlawed story-keepers who keep the tales alive. Not as sad as it sounds, at least, I don't think it is), this is as far as I've got with my reply:

That’s almost as beautiful an image as Keira Knightly playing pirate, which is what I woke up to this morning J. I now have this image of the pair of us in smart, hard-worn office wear, in a spacious, large-desked office, several storeys up. It has low lighting, and a window-wall overlooking the sparkling cityscape. It’s more burgundy than sepia.

And as the lights dance below us, it plays out something like this:

“You nearly finished, babe?”

“Not even close,” Ginger exhaled forcefully as she pushed back a wayward strand of hair, still staring at the page before her, “you?”

Daisy scoffed. “No.”

The pair turned their attention back to their work, and for a while, all you could hear, besides the odd heavy sigh, was the clacking of key and the judder of moving ribbon.

*

Hearing the gentle clink of two glasses being lifted from the bottom drawer, Ginger pulled herself and a dusty, battered file, out from the deep filing cabinet. Daisy had already crossed the room when she turned.

“Here,” she passed Ginger one of the glasses.

“Thanks.”

Ginger leaned against the desk, flicking through the file absentmindedly as she swirled the heavy liquid in her other hand.

“Y’know,” she mused, “sometimes, I wonder why we do this.”

Daisy grimaced.

“I know. But who else is there?”

Ginger dismissed this hastily. “Nobody’d notice if we, sort of faded into the background.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Cue: Write about the Silent Treatment

I've been giving it the silent treatment,
my sorrow, but it does not let me be.
It sits there in the gloom,
watching.
Like the ill-invited party guest, it scowls,
from the corner,
waiting for the moment
where its awkward , stunted movements
can ruin everything.

Jelly and Ice-Cream.

Or, Who's The Adult Here?

It was mentioned here that I spent my birthday doing cool stuff with one of the coolest people on earth.

Erm, it was instigated by my Dad, andSkip back a couple of days, and I was a) roaming the new forest and naming everything in sight. though I'm not exactly sure why, it quickly escalated into hilarity. The rain which lashed down upon us, incidentally, was called Rupert.

Then I spent a civilized morning bargain-shopping with my grandmother.

So, back to my birthday. I leave my grandparents' house and hop onto a train, to look around bath spa campus and meet The Pest for lunch and fun.

The tour was rather pointless. My department was closed and the student leading the tour was clueless. Completely clueless. However, it's a beautiful place with good vibes, and the course does look great.

Then, beginning with tea and art appreciation, The Pest and I took in the city. Quickly however, we slipped from adult tourism to childish fun. We discussed how to defeat the satanic power of the toddler's scream as we walked along the crescent. We sat under a tree in a circle of green, surrounded by beautiful stone architecture, listening to music and perusing Cambridge literature. And then we found this...


This playground has everything, from giant slides and climbing frames to an array of swings (including 2 for disabled kids), sandpits to those aerial tyre runs, a wonky spinning disc which was imposible to stay standing on, and a tyre see-saw on which we got stuck.

Naturally, I accepted the place at Bath Spa :-)

And summer just keeps on getting better. This week, three more of my favourite-but-rarely-seen people - my uncle, and 7-year-old cousins - came to stay.

It looked a little like this:


Eureka is a fantastic labyrinth of stuff for kids to explore and experiment with. 'Kids' not determined by age, obviously.


Mum triumphed over mud, tree roots and narrow pathways on our walk through woods and fields. Everyone got a little wet.

Much of their stay was not photo-documented. I spent one glorious late-evening at a pub, with my favourite jazz band playing, talking - properly talking - to my uncle. Just us.

The girls discovered artichokes, and Marion tried prawn curry.

We examined potato plants and wheat in fields beside the woods. We swung over the river. We skipped and hopped and jumped.

We spent 2 hours in Borders Bookstore searching for the perfect Birthday Books. And the girls each read one as we snuggled on the sofa that evening.

We played hide and seek, read monster poetry, and tried out their new game, cranium cadoo. We played the piano with more energy and randomness than you'd imagine.

I am never growing up.