Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

Not as short as a haiku haha! This is set in a playroom situation, where, in all the stories, the lead character would be one of the various things in the playroom: toys, vehicles, puppets, stones etc. And in this one, the craft paper! Well you can’t say it’s not original 🙂 The idea is that at the end of any story the toys or whatever will go to sleep, or it becomes nighttime. They could well be used as bedtime stories. Lots of discussion points possible, of course, on what has been going on in the story.

See what you think. Here’s an image to go with it.

red paper

Red Paper’s tale

The piece of red paper lay on the table in the playroom with all the other sheets of paper – blue and orange, black and white, cream and pale brown.

Red Paper looked round at the others.

“I’m the brightest and best paper here,” she said. “Mark will choose me to draw on, and then he’ll hang me on the wall for everyone to look at.”

“Shut up!” said Black Paper. “You’re just a bit of paper like all the rest of us. Mark could draw fireworks and a bonfire on me. Black is perfect for that.”

“Yes,” said Blue Paper. “And Mark might let me be the sky when he draws his house.”

“Or I could be a sandy beach,” said Orange Paper.

At that moment, Mark raced into the playroom with his friend Jodi.

“What shall we draw?” Mark asked Jodi. “Houses? The seaside? Bonfire night?”

Red Paper held her breath and crossed her fingers. What would Jodi say?

“Actually,” Jodi said, “My dad’s been showing me how to fold paper to make tiny models. You don’t have to cut it. Shall I show you how?”

Make tiny models? Red Paper was furious. She got redder and redder as she thought about being folded and squashed and creased and bent. Paper was for drawing on! How dare they ruin her?

But before she could say “paper plane”, Mark and Jodi sat down at the table and Jodi picked her up. She flapped and flipped in Jody’s hand, trying to escape.

“Bother!” said Jodi. “This red paper is too bendy and floppy. Let’s try the black piece first.”

Red Paper sat and fumed. She didn’t want to be folded and creased – but she didn’t want to be left out either. She was the best, wasn’t she?

But she had to sit and watch as Jodi folded and creased Black Paper.

After a while, she grew so interested that she forgot to be cross. Jodi’s hands were very careful as she made each fold, and she kept waiting so that Mark could copy with his piece of orange paper.

When they had both finished, Red Paper couldn’t believe her eyes. There, in front of them, sat two little birds.

“Mine’s a blackbird,” said Jodi. “What’s yours, Mark?”

“An orange bird, of course,” he said, waving it around in the air.

Red Paper was sad now. So she flapped and flipped in the breeze that wafted through the window, and hoped that someone would let her join in.

Jodi noticed and picked her up.“Let’s try with this bendy bit now,” she said. “See if you can guess what I’m making.”

Mark watched as Red Paper let herself be folded this way and that, without arguing, until Jodi stood her on the table. She felt very important.

“Why, it’s a butterfly!” Mark exclaimed.

A butterfly? Red Paper flexed her wings up and down excitedly. And the breeze suddenly caught her and carried her over to the book shelf. She was flying! She was beautiful. “Come up here,” she called to the blackbird and the orange bird. “It’s fun to fly!”

“Good night, little butterfly,” Mark and Jodi called as they switched out the light in the playroom. “You can sleep up there tonight. See you in the morning!”

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I seem to be stuck in the “up to 500 words range”. This is around 400. I could, of course, continue the novel I started last time. I may do so. But right now, I wrote this instead.

If you think it sounds like a misery novel excerpt, let me assure you upfront, it’s not. It’s just what it is: a standalone scenario. Yes, the awful dress, and the fancy dress street party it was meant to be worn at, stem from real memory. (Oh god, do I remember it!) But the rest is sheer invention, just to make it a fiction. I mean, who wants boring fact all the time?

Let me know if you like it. I need all the encouragement I can harvest from you to get back into regular daily fiction writing! I was looking at the website www.bookdesigntemplates.com just now and was greatly inspired – perhaps also because I so love doing school visits.

And I wrote it in Bean, my favourite go-to for tiny bits of writing.

Screen Shot 2017-10-18 at 10.41.17

Mother holds up the fancy dress she’s made for me and beams happily. My stomach lurches. My brother is already dressed up in a brown pirate costume with a little cutlass tucked into the belt. It makes him look grown up and strong.

“Perfect,” she declares, patting the bright yellow cotton. It’s covered in enormous red hearts like patches of blood. “You’ll be the perfect Queen of Hearts,” she says. “Off with your clothes, and let’s try it on. Then I’ll sew it up properly and remove the tacking threads.”

I stare at her. This can’t be happening. How am I supposed to wear this hideous thing in front of everyone? My eyes blur, and the red and yellow turn into an orange ballooning monster that floats towards me.

“No!” I scream.

I run from the room into the hall. She follows me and smacks me hard on my bottom. I hit her back on the arm as hard as I can. “It’s horrid, horrid, horrid!” I shout.

Her eyes go narrow and black. She strips my thin dress and knickers off, holds me tight in one hand, slaps my bare bottom again and again, and pushes me onto the wicker stool that always sits by the front door.

“Just you stay there so the neighbours can see what a wicked, ungrateful child you are,” she says, her voice as cold as the seat.

I don’t look round, but I hear her stalk back to the dining room. I know that if I move, it will be the belt next. So I hold myself still while the wicker presses into my sore backside and sends pain right up to my eyes. They start to leak, but I refuse to cry.

How can she have made my brother a wonderful pirate costume and me a horrible yellow Queen of Hearts? Why not a fairy or a princess or a witch, in white, red, black – anything but bright shiny yellow with huge red hearts and a skirt that sticks out like a parachute. Everyone will notice me and point and laugh. Everyone will say how ugly I look…

I shiver in the draught.

Then I hear crunching on the gravel. Someone’s coming. They’ll see me with nothing on. They’ll see my knickers on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I call in a voice that’s not my own. “I’ll put the dress on. I’m sorry.”

The time for delaying tactics is over. I need to write something. Anything. Especially anything longer than a haiku! Just to get back into the swing.

So here are nearly 500 words of a possible novel for middle grade. Nothing to write home about (excuse the pun) but until I see what I’ve written, I usually don’t know exactly what I wanted to write! And clearly this won’t be right for today’s middle grade children (at least if you want a publisher), but then again, I do know some kids who would lap up a mystery novel just fine. Which is what this beginning has in mind.

Anyway, I don’t do funny very well, I don’t do bottom humour, and I don’t do – oh, I don’t know, clever stuff. So into the bin with it. But do have a read first 🙂 All writing needs a reader!

For the zillionth time that afternoon, Oriel leaned out of the hotel’s attic window and stared down into Chatfield’s medieval cobbled square. Her eyes scanned the sunlit groups of shoppers from right to left, as if trying to find a hidden thimble. Then she stiffened and caught her breath sharply.

That’s him, I bet, she thought. Young and alone, with a leather suitcase, and foreign-looking. Definitely Josef Ahlenburg, our first guest… And in an awful hurry to reach us.

The boy in question looked about fourteen or fifteen, a few years older than Oriel, and he was sprinting – not like you sprint when you’re late for tea (which he nearly was) but as if training for his school football team. He was running a short way and then stopping, running and stopping again, as he came down the final stretch of road that led into the square. Every time he paused, he turned to glance warily over his shoulder at the lingering groups of Saturday shoppers. Then he darted past another group and looked round again. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see him dribbling a football, as if wondering who to pass it to.

Who was he trying to avoid?

She was slightly alarmed. Josef Ahlenburg couldn’t be trying to escape anyone. He wouldn’t know anyone yet, let alone have enemies. He was coming to England to take part in an international music course at the Grange.

Oriel stared, mesmerised, shading her eyes from the sun that streaked in from the south-west. It was still high above the beech trees flanking the park on one side of the square.

The boy paused again. Looked around, this time scanning the street higher up. Maybe he was searching for the Red Tree sign that hung from its black metal bracket outside the hotel windows two floors below Oriel.

Suddenly, he gazed straight up at her, as if he might have seen her. Oriel waved frantically to attract his attention.

She thought he nodded briefly before setting off again. But he still walked zig-zag around the cobbled pavements, as if his feet simply refused to go directly to the hotel.

Oriel frowned. She was sure this was Josef – the violin he carried was a dead giveaway, now that she noticed it. He wore a navy blue blazer, white shirt and grey trousers, which must be his school uniform. But he didn’t look at all like the posh boy she’d imagined, knowing his mother was a German countess. That must absolutely be the most awful thing to have to put up with – no eating in bed, no talking with your mouth full, no leaving the house without a bodyguard…

And then she remembered her father. Maybe being posh wasn’t the worst thing to have to survive.

In for a penny, in for a pound, as my dad used to say! So here is my unicorn image and here is a haiku. Another haiku, um, or three 🙂 Can’t choose between them this time. Maybe I should move on to some other poetry form! But I did say I would start writing again in September and maybe I’m easing myself in. That is, to fiction. I’ve never stopped writing factual stuff for journals.

Unicorn screenshot

unicorn moonlit circle

 

Of shoes and haiku

Posted: September 9, 2017 in Art, fiction, poems, thoughts, writing
Tags: , , , , ,

Was sketching feet in shoes because it’s something I do badly when attached to a human figure – even if the figure looks good overall. So I’ve been observing more carefully.

But they also looked lonely by themselves, so I wrote three haiku. All describe the same feeling – that drawing shoes is probably a slightly easier task than getting a human foot correct. Which is weird, because shoes should be more manufactured/structured, but the human foot has a lot of variations after their owners have lived for a while! Anyway, here they are – both shod feet and haiku attempts.

shoes haiku screenshot

graphite shoes

Back in July 2016, I posted about a new version of Humpty Dumpty I had invented on a whim. You can find it here.

This morning I got up and found some new words to another nursery rhyme going round in my head. I jotted them down and then added some pretty primitive sketches.

Maybe I was inspired subconsciously by having seen one-day-old lambs yesterday (ours are late up here), but anyway, I thought I’d post it here tonight to amuse you.

Enjoy!

Mary had a little lamb

I toyed with writing something in the first person from two different viewpoints of the two people who had a chance encounter. This is what resulted.

It would be a bit longer than usual for a blog post – 500 words each – so I’ll post one half today and the other half tomorrow.

If I wish you a really good drawing and writing new year (I’m not above a bit of bribery!) will you find time to read both?! Thing is, bribery apart, you only get the point if you read both. Same encounter but interpreted very differently by the two people involved.  I’d love to hear whether you think it works.

And thank you very much for the support in Likes and comments during the past year. Much appreciated in your busy lives.

An open book (1)

I was about to pass the library and pretend the doc hadn’t given me this note, when I found myself stopping. I fished in my pocket for the booklist: bibliotherapy indeed! Oh well, it wouldn’t do any harm to try – might even pass the time. There was precious little to do at home. Nothing interested me any longer.

I tugged open the heavy oak door, and a breath of warm air hit me, sweet and, well, booky. At first glance, the library seemed deserted. The vaulted ceiling and rows of dark shelves reminded me of an ancient church with a preservation order on it – both comforting and off-putting.

I was a bit disorientated because the layout was not at all like the modern scientific collections I was used to at Bellingham’s. There, because I was the chief lab technician, I consulted chemistry books stacked in modern pine-veneered shelves that must have cost a bomb. Of course, if they hadn’t invested so much in their library, maybe they wouldn’t have had to lay us off. It’s depressing how people get their priorities wrong.

This library was so gloomy and uninspiring, I turned to leave.

‘Can I help?’ a voice behind me called. ‘You look lost.’

I turned. A tall young man appeared from behind a stack, with a dozen books piled dangerously high in his arms. His friendly eyes peeped at me over the top. They held an air of alarm.

Caught deserting, I told myself ruefully. ‘No, not lost – but I don’t usually come here. Could you tell me where to find these, please?’ I held out the list, feeling even more like the maiden in distress that I’d become recently.

The man dropped the books in a messy pile on the front desk and took the paper from me. I relaxed a fraction as he scanned the titles. His dark hair was cropped short in a number one, just the way I like it, and his navy fleece gave him an air of cuddly reliability. About thirty. Nice looking.

‘I think they’re self-help books,’ I added, trying not to sound too eccentric. ‘But I only need the top one.’

It took him next to no time to fetch the book from a nearby shelf and return to the desk. ‘I suppose you won’t have a borrowing card?’ he asked. ‘I’ll make you out one if you have some identification.’

I handed over my driving licence and found myself opening up a fraction. Someone choosing to be helpful was a relief actually. ‘I usually buy my books from charity shops and eBay,’ I told him, cautiously putting a toe in the water. ‘We all do. Then, once a month, we go down to the bookshop and choose a new one.’

He looked up with what I took to be surprise on his face. ‘Oh, but not this sort,’ I added hastily. ‘Fantasy and sci fi, crime, thrillers. Nothing too touchy-feely.’ I wanted him to think the self-help books were for someone else.

Surprisingly, he didn’t look pityingly at me. ‘I buy my books, too,’ he said, handing me the somewhat dog-eared copy of Managing your Moods. ‘Much better to own books than borrow them. But I shouldn’t say that, should I? Not working here! Anyway, have fun with this one, Lucy.’

I felt as if life had perked up all of its own accord. He’d bothered to read my ID and remember my name!