The Next Project.
I have been asked to write a series of letters to be broadcast on radio in a by-monthly slot. Pure fiction of course but the natural need for material will no doubt come from life as it swirls around me and mine.
This is exciting and rather daunting as the deadlines seem to loom up quickly. However I shall post them here and hope anyone reading them will enjoy the content.
Letters From The Other Side by Cynthia are from an old friend of the radio producer. They knew one another when they were younger, much younger, during the 1970's when they both dreamed of peace and love, ate mung beans, wove macrame hanging baskets and wafted about in caftans smelling of sandalwood incense.
They are both much older, have moved on but still in many ways, Cynthia retains her original beliefs in the unorthodox life she enjoyed all those years ago.
20th March 2009.
Dear Del,
There I was up to my elbows in pears as I prepared the glut we have this year for preserving and in walked Teddy with your letter.
I was so thrilled to hear from you I am already sitting down to reply while the pears steam the kitchen windows and put their lovely autumn aroma through the house. Last week I made zucchini pickle and although it is a very good batch, the tang of its pickled contents must have wafted up the court because Ronald, a neighbour from across the road who seems to be a semi-permanent support to our front gate and of whom you will no doubt, hear more, asked me if I would be putting a ‘skipping girl’ sign out on our front fence. Still, I find he never says no to a small jar of whatever I have been making. Ronald is the local wheeler and dealer of cars and spends the time between propping up our gate lying under whatever wreck it is he is repairing getting it ready to be put back onto the unsuspecting market.
Your letter took a little while to find me as we have moved from our old home since you last wrote. It has been a most traumatic experience and sometimes I’ve wondered if doing something because it seems practical and sensible is wise. Life can become bland and full of unnecessary and petty occupations. I feel much separated from the very things that gave our days their grounding stimulus and joy. For me the vagaries of the natural world can be more challenging and exciting than a swirl of frivolous interests and constant social experiences which in the end, just leave me tired. I think it must be so for others because there seems to often be among people I have met so much dissatisfaction with their lives. I feel the cause of this dissatisfaction could be too much constant comparison of status or possessions. Comparisons with others can make us unhappy with our lot or perhaps even worse, give us a sense of superiority we don’t justly deserve don’t you think?
At last I can report everything is out of our packing boxes and put away. Where it has been put I am not always sure, but I do at least know that if I look hard enough I will find it…eventually.
Having our furniture and familiar old objects scattered about the house makes it more like ‘ours’ but it will be a long time before either of us can think of it as ‘home’.
In my mind I can walk around my old fragrant garden and visualize, smell and touch all the familiar plants. I can see the little patch of lavender under the tulip tree where our lovely dogs lie. Our spaniel seemed to try so hard to stay with us until we moved but his heart gave out two weeks before we left. I hated leaving him behind. He had always made a special stop at the tulip tree when making his morning rounds. So he is in a favourite place.
In that garden I could look up at the moody mountains and the only creatures remotely interested in my actions were the intelligent and gentle Aberdeen Angus cattle. As they looked over the fence to with a steady gaze of dark curious eyes. My favourite memory of them is of autumn mornings when their dark shapes would be silhouetted against the dawn and the early mist rising from the ground would swirl around their legs.
Here I wake in the morning and open my door to see the bare fences closing us in and the many anonymous roofs contrasting dully against a patchy sky
I will grow a cave of green around us in which I can hide and dream of happy days.
Teddy had a very hard time packing up his sheds. I watched him on occasions laden with some precious item he had salvaged from a clearing sale or a friend’s shed—he would walk half way to the rubbish skip, turn --- and back with it still in his arms to his shed. There were times when it took him two or three attempts before he could find it in himself to throw whatever it was out. He finally squeezed the contents of his three sheds into the one small one here. It was a hard thing for him to do and rather sad to watch.
He spent years collecting bits of this and that machinery ‘which might come in handy one day’ and true to his word he often made up or repaired motors and machines that others didn’t have the necessary parts for. I think his mates will be missing him and the contents of his sheds.
We know that this area has been hard hit by the lack of water, but I am fed up with people moaning that their places look dreadful because they can’t garden because of this lack of water. They have had more than many in some parts of the country so I have no patience. I yearn to scream Rubbish, rubbish! Instead I hold my tongue, but I do to prove them wrong and as fast as I can.
We inherited a garden which I think was designed for a lazy and bad tempered occupant who was oblivious to the environment around him. Everything was spiky, spiny, leathery and useless to the local fauna and flora. It is my firm belief that some of the hardy plants we are being encouraged to grow are the next generation’s nightmares. A little like the pampas grasses we put in during the ’70 and ‘80s and lived long enough to find they were a potential environmental menace.
The local birds are only the common ones, but they have a right to live. They were thirsty because no one left water out for them and the few honey eaters surviving found little nectar to feed from.
We have removed all the of the plants the former owners probably paid a fortune for and began a garden I think will deal with the local conditions and provide habitat for the birds and pleasure and shade for us. We have three bird baths and this year two families of honey eaters moved into our shrubs. They became so besotted with their change of conditions they produced two families for the season. I’ll know we are succeeding when we have our first blue wrens make a home and it will be cause for celebrations whenever I hear a frog………..if ever I hear a frog.
In all the months we have been here we have never heard a Kookaburra. The big trees which they need to nest in have all been cut down. When I was young our family holidayed here and they were abundant. How sad when people come to enjoy a place and destroy the very habitat they profess to love.
We are already self sufficient in most of our fruit as we were lucky enough to inherit fruit trees that were obviously too difficult for the former lazy owners to remove. We have pruned them and brought them back from the brink of death with our grey water from the laundry. The first thing we did was to put in a tank which we were lucky enough to get filled by the first April rain last year. It has been topped up occasionally and with some care, has seen us through the worst of summer. The grey water was fitted shortly afterwards and its obvious benefits were almost immediate.
Teddy is a very good vegetable grower and after purchasing some excellent garden soil he built it up further with the compost from our worm farm. This marvellous thing was a goodbye gift from our former neighbours….they just the right thing to please us.We have enjoyed our own vegetables for the past twelve months. That’s quite enough of the garden tho’ for now.
Aunt Alice and Uncle Rodger are still much the same. He is the unofficial mayor of the retirement village and runs everything they will let him get his hands on. He still flirts outrageously with the ladies and acts the innocent when Aunt Alice gets jealous or furious with him, usually both. Aunt Alice is still apt to voice her opinions too loudly at inappropriate moments and her little body seems to be smaller than ever. She also has the added problem of excessive flatulence which can be disconcerting in confined spaces.
They both suffer various health problems and provide Teddy and me with more information about their illnesses, digestive tracts and bowels than either of us really wish to know.
Her brother in Wellsgate is ill and she has already told us we will have to drive them up to his funeral. Oh dear…….
I mentioned I thought they hadn’t been speaking for some years. Silly me….she replied that at his funeral she didn’t expect she would be speaking to him. So, I suppose we can expect to have to take the long drive up with them at some time.
Uncle Rodger had his licence taken away some months ago when he backed over a lady. Fortunately he didn’t hurt her badly. The police told him he had to take a driving test and refused to return his license after going through what I can only think was a rather traumatic test drive with him. He is quite deaf, can’t turn his head to see if traffic is approaching from the right and as he needs a walking frame to get around, you can imagine his reaction time is very slow.
He was furious with the officer and threatened all sorts of things a younger man might well have been fined for. Since then he has been firing off indignant letters he bashes out on his ancient Olivetti typewriter and sending it bouncing across his desk with the vehemence of his prodding digits. The various dignitaries receiving his diatribes wisely don’t reply which for the rest of us using the roads, is fortunate.
This morning along with your letter I received a new card for my savings account at the bank. The logic of it has left me quite dazed. It is a cash only card but when I want cash I am to press credit. When I want to use cash but also withdraw cash as I sometimes do at the supermarket, I am to use cheque! So the upshot according to the bank as I see it is savings=credit. Cash = cheque.
Is it any wonder the world has a monetary crisis when the banks have a logic crisis?
Oh how wonderful! It is raining REAL rain! The sky had made us so many idle promises these past few weeks but at last it is delivering. If we have fairies at the bottom of the garden dancing I would love to join them, but I fear I would look more like a clumsy overweight garden gnome.
Teddy is standing in the kitchen with a vacant look on his face as though he has just discovered this strange room in the house and surmises it may have something to do with the production of food. i.e. his afternoon tea. So I shall go and minister to him because if he tries to make it he will leave a trail of milk drops, tea stains and sugar crystals that the ants will find in an hour.
We hope you and yours are all well and content.
We presume our family are all well as we haven’t heard from them this week.
From your aging flower child friend, until next time,
Love Cynthia.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Mental,Physical,Emotional,Health and Safety Rules For Writers.
Some of the rules most writers need reminding about and many which we, in our headlong rush to get something down on paper, forget.
Always have a well lit space in which to work. As the years go by your eyes will thank you.
Try and have a particular place in which to write that is yours and will remain in the same state in which you left it. Difficult with families, I know.
Make sure you don’t work in unventilated fuggy stale air. Your brain needs oxygen as well as inspiration to work efficiently.
Eat healthy regular meals. Don’t graze on junk and too much coffee or, heaven forbid, cigarettes and wine. The shelves are full of biographies about artists and writers who died too young because they didn’t take care of their physical health.
Posture, a word not used a great deal these days but think about it. After years of sitting at a computer or desk, unless you are very diligent, your neck will begin to curve into what used to be called an ‘accountant’s hump’ or ‘dowager’s hump’. Even worse, you can develop extreme problems with the vertebra of your neck, causing trigeminal neuralgia which is I assure you, MOST painful.
Re above. Physiotherapists say that half an hour at a time working at your computer is enough and then you must change position, stretch or better still, get up and walk around. Set an alarm to remind you if you have to because it is too easy to begin during daylight and suddenly look out of the window and assume there has been an unexpected eclipse when actually the sun has set and that gnawing feeling in your stomach isn’t excitement, it is hunger. Dogs are even better than alarms; they won’t let you work past their meal times.
Use time while doing mundane jobs to work out plots, dialogue etc. It makes the mundane more exciting.
Don’t forget the people in your life. They need to know you don’t live entirely inside your head. Your writing can’t give you a hug or laugh at a joke with you.
Don’t become so obsessed with your own work that people you mix with and talk to(or is that at?) feel trapped and suddenly remember appointments they had completely forgotten about and henceforth hide behind bushes when they see you approach.
Be organized. Writing for an hour a day will get you much further than talking about writing for four hours a day.
Read writing advice books etc by authors you admire. You will learn more because you understand the books they are talking about.
Keep your feet on the ground and your emotional and mental health tip top by reminding yourself constantly that there are many occupations in the world just as important to the human race as yours. i.e. growing food.
When you have attained a measure of success, don’t become a Prima Donna overnight. That path leads to narcissism, self absorption, and selfish behaviours and makes you a complete pain in the neck to everyone. Pedestals are notoriously unstable things to sit upon.
Remember some of the writers you know who are shy or perhaps not as quick and verbally articulate or ‘forceful’ as you are, may still have written expression and insights superior to you own. To quote from the Desiderata,’ listen to the dull and ignorant, for they too have their story.’ They may after all, not be so dull.
When you do become involved with agents, editors and publishers treat their opinions and advice with respect. They are the professionals who will help you achieve your goal. If you get a reputation for being a difficult writer, the waves you make will spread quickly across the relatively small pond in which they swim.
Try and remember to use at least 80% of the above rules all the time.
Liz Thompson ©
Some of the rules most writers need reminding about and many which we, in our headlong rush to get something down on paper, forget.
Always have a well lit space in which to work. As the years go by your eyes will thank you.
Try and have a particular place in which to write that is yours and will remain in the same state in which you left it. Difficult with families, I know.
Make sure you don’t work in unventilated fuggy stale air. Your brain needs oxygen as well as inspiration to work efficiently.
Eat healthy regular meals. Don’t graze on junk and too much coffee or, heaven forbid, cigarettes and wine. The shelves are full of biographies about artists and writers who died too young because they didn’t take care of their physical health.
Posture, a word not used a great deal these days but think about it. After years of sitting at a computer or desk, unless you are very diligent, your neck will begin to curve into what used to be called an ‘accountant’s hump’ or ‘dowager’s hump’. Even worse, you can develop extreme problems with the vertebra of your neck, causing trigeminal neuralgia which is I assure you, MOST painful.
Re above. Physiotherapists say that half an hour at a time working at your computer is enough and then you must change position, stretch or better still, get up and walk around. Set an alarm to remind you if you have to because it is too easy to begin during daylight and suddenly look out of the window and assume there has been an unexpected eclipse when actually the sun has set and that gnawing feeling in your stomach isn’t excitement, it is hunger. Dogs are even better than alarms; they won’t let you work past their meal times.
Use time while doing mundane jobs to work out plots, dialogue etc. It makes the mundane more exciting.
Don’t forget the people in your life. They need to know you don’t live entirely inside your head. Your writing can’t give you a hug or laugh at a joke with you.
Don’t become so obsessed with your own work that people you mix with and talk to(or is that at?) feel trapped and suddenly remember appointments they had completely forgotten about and henceforth hide behind bushes when they see you approach.
Be organized. Writing for an hour a day will get you much further than talking about writing for four hours a day.
Read writing advice books etc by authors you admire. You will learn more because you understand the books they are talking about.
Keep your feet on the ground and your emotional and mental health tip top by reminding yourself constantly that there are many occupations in the world just as important to the human race as yours. i.e. growing food.
When you have attained a measure of success, don’t become a Prima Donna overnight. That path leads to narcissism, self absorption, and selfish behaviours and makes you a complete pain in the neck to everyone. Pedestals are notoriously unstable things to sit upon.
Remember some of the writers you know who are shy or perhaps not as quick and verbally articulate or ‘forceful’ as you are, may still have written expression and insights superior to you own. To quote from the Desiderata,’ listen to the dull and ignorant, for they too have their story.’ They may after all, not be so dull.
When you do become involved with agents, editors and publishers treat their opinions and advice with respect. They are the professionals who will help you achieve your goal. If you get a reputation for being a difficult writer, the waves you make will spread quickly across the relatively small pond in which they swim.
Try and remember to use at least 80% of the above rules all the time.
Liz Thompson ©
Monday, August 13, 2007
Q. I is keeping a journal really worth while when I have tonnes of ideas and stories stored in my head?
A. Keeping a journal, exercise book of notes, rough jotting book, or a hundred small notes pinned on a board, is very much an individual choice. I can only say that in my own experience keeping a small note book of ideas, descriptions of places, people, faces, clothing, unusual housing …well anything that may take my eye had proven extremely helpful.
Sometimes finding where I last left the book can be more trouble than writing in it has ever been.
I guess many will say they keep a list stored on their computer but the computer may be at home and it is the instant recording of items of interest that will often be the best as they have the reality in the words that may be missing when a description is needed a few hours or even days later.
I definitely use mine a great deal. I have a large one for home and a small diary size for my handbag.
Try it for a few weeks, I’m sure you will find it an invaluable help. Liz ©
Q. I really want to be a writer but my friends and family don't take me seriously. How can I convince them?
A. There are not many of us who haven’t seen the barely undisguised look of disbelief on the face of a friend or family member when we have spoken about being a writer. Most try to be well mannered and don’t laugh out loud and very few pat us on the head and tell us we’ll get over it. But it happens.
It should, if you can remain focused on your writing make you more determined to succeed.
Join a writing group and mix with other people who are interested in writing, art or at least reading. They will be your support group.
When you have your first cheque or publication, no matter how small, tell the doubters and show them. Eventually the ‘look’ will fade out of their eyes. Liz ©
Q.When do I start calling myself a writer?
A. The minute you start writing and thinking about your writing every day. You don’t necessarily need to have been published, or paid for your work. If you write each day and you intend to make it the focus of your creative urge. Then you are a writer.
A scientist is someone who enters a lab searching for answers or cures that he may never find during the course of his life. He is still a scientist because that was his life’s work. A walker starts with the first step, a gardener with the turn of the first sod as she pictures in her head the design and colour of the created garden. You are what is inside your mind and heart. My daughter gave me a hanging which says ‘Life isn’t about finding yourself, it is about creating yourself ’ I wold add 'bring what is within you....out'.
Being a writer comes from inside you. It is up to you to bring it out and show everyone else that is what you are. LIZ ©
A. Keeping a journal, exercise book of notes, rough jotting book, or a hundred small notes pinned on a board, is very much an individual choice. I can only say that in my own experience keeping a small note book of ideas, descriptions of places, people, faces, clothing, unusual housing …well anything that may take my eye had proven extremely helpful.
Sometimes finding where I last left the book can be more trouble than writing in it has ever been.
I guess many will say they keep a list stored on their computer but the computer may be at home and it is the instant recording of items of interest that will often be the best as they have the reality in the words that may be missing when a description is needed a few hours or even days later.
I definitely use mine a great deal. I have a large one for home and a small diary size for my handbag.
Try it for a few weeks, I’m sure you will find it an invaluable help. Liz ©
Q. I really want to be a writer but my friends and family don't take me seriously. How can I convince them?
A. There are not many of us who haven’t seen the barely undisguised look of disbelief on the face of a friend or family member when we have spoken about being a writer. Most try to be well mannered and don’t laugh out loud and very few pat us on the head and tell us we’ll get over it. But it happens.
It should, if you can remain focused on your writing make you more determined to succeed.
Join a writing group and mix with other people who are interested in writing, art or at least reading. They will be your support group.
When you have your first cheque or publication, no matter how small, tell the doubters and show them. Eventually the ‘look’ will fade out of their eyes. Liz ©
Q.When do I start calling myself a writer?
A. The minute you start writing and thinking about your writing every day. You don’t necessarily need to have been published, or paid for your work. If you write each day and you intend to make it the focus of your creative urge. Then you are a writer.
A scientist is someone who enters a lab searching for answers or cures that he may never find during the course of his life. He is still a scientist because that was his life’s work. A walker starts with the first step, a gardener with the turn of the first sod as she pictures in her head the design and colour of the created garden. You are what is inside your mind and heart. My daughter gave me a hanging which says ‘Life isn’t about finding yourself, it is about creating yourself ’ I wold add 'bring what is within you....out'.
Being a writer comes from inside you. It is up to you to bring it out and show everyone else that is what you are. LIZ ©
Thursday, June 7, 2007
F.A Q. I Want to be published is it important to enter competitions?
A. Most writers write hoping one day to see their work published. Some will not need to enter competitions, but they are the lucky few who somehow slip through to an editor because of their previous work in other fields or specialist knowledge about a particular subject.
The rest of us pounding away in our writing nooks need to build our skills and reputations as writers to have any hope of having a manuscript obtain a favourable glance from an editor.
Competitions give us the chance to show our abilities to judges from many areas and in all parts of the world. There are competitions everywhere and you may find your writing style and interests meet American, English or, if you are lucky enough to have other languages in your skills, Italian, Greek etc. ( I have a friend who writes children’s stories for the Spanish market. He is an Englishman living in Australia! The world is at our fingertips and sitting on our desks inside our computers. How lucky are we to live at such a time?)
The more competitions we enter, the more people will read our work and the closer we get to possibly winning enough accolades to have a C.V that will begin to make editors of magazines and publishers sit up and take notice.
If you are a beginner, you may be so naturally talented that you will take out a prestigious prize with your first effort. Most of us don’t have the well polished skills to do this.
So begin with smaller competitions which perhaps only offer publication in a journal, a book prize, or perhaps, just a small monetary reward for your efforts.(- TIP; Frame that first cheque and put it above your desk. It will inspire you on the days when the words won’t come! )- It all counts. One day you may go back to that first small winning story and with the experience and skills learned from constantly writing, turn it into your first published novel.
Try and read the winning stories of competitions you enter and analyse them as dispassionately as you can to find what it was that made them the winners. Re-read your own work and again try to see why it missed out. Polish it once more, try it from another angle, maybe play with different aspects and send it out again. Don’t relegate a good idea to lie languishing in the dark at the bottom of a box. If it was a good idea once, it will remain a good idea, it just was not perhaps expressed well enough. Enter it again refreshed if need be.
Liz. ©
F.A.Q Do I have to stick to the rules of a competition? Surely the judges won't mind a few extra words?
A. Ooooh yes they will! Those few extra words when it comes down to a tie between your work and the story of another writer who hasn’t bent the rules, will cost you the win.
The rules are there to be followed that’s why they are rules. Liz ©
F.A.Q Are competitions worth entering when I never win and each one costs me money in entry fees and postage?
The reasons for writing for competitions are;
1. They make you learn to meet deadlines.
2. They sometimes make you write and think about certain themes and subjects you may normally not try.
3. Because of the above they will help teach you to research a subject.
4. They teach you to express ideas within a limited word count.
5. They encourage you to let go of your ‘children’ and make them compete with others.
6. If you take the trouble to read the winning entries, you will learn to judge the level and competency of your work with a more practiced eye.
7. If you write for competitions regularly you build your body of work steadily and give yourself ideas to return to and develop into other articles, stories and novels.
8. If you don’t win with a story you were sure was an outstanding effort. You are entitled to have a rant, feel disappointed and decide to give it all up for golf or whatever. Remember there are probably hundreds of us feeling the same and you will know that we will all do as you will. After your first practice game of golf you will have thought of a good plot for a murder on the 9th green, a romance in the clubhouse, an article on the history of golf and golf equipment, a travel blurb on the problems of green keeping in equatorial regions, funny golf ticks and habits that people develop, the psychology of a golfing tyrant etc, etc WHY? Because you are a writer and that’s what you do! Let’s face it, golf will also cost you a lot more money than a few entry fees and you’ll probably get wet and catch a cold anyway.
Liz ©
A. Most writers write hoping one day to see their work published. Some will not need to enter competitions, but they are the lucky few who somehow slip through to an editor because of their previous work in other fields or specialist knowledge about a particular subject.
The rest of us pounding away in our writing nooks need to build our skills and reputations as writers to have any hope of having a manuscript obtain a favourable glance from an editor.
Competitions give us the chance to show our abilities to judges from many areas and in all parts of the world. There are competitions everywhere and you may find your writing style and interests meet American, English or, if you are lucky enough to have other languages in your skills, Italian, Greek etc. ( I have a friend who writes children’s stories for the Spanish market. He is an Englishman living in Australia! The world is at our fingertips and sitting on our desks inside our computers. How lucky are we to live at such a time?)
The more competitions we enter, the more people will read our work and the closer we get to possibly winning enough accolades to have a C.V that will begin to make editors of magazines and publishers sit up and take notice.
If you are a beginner, you may be so naturally talented that you will take out a prestigious prize with your first effort. Most of us don’t have the well polished skills to do this.
So begin with smaller competitions which perhaps only offer publication in a journal, a book prize, or perhaps, just a small monetary reward for your efforts.(- TIP; Frame that first cheque and put it above your desk. It will inspire you on the days when the words won’t come! )- It all counts. One day you may go back to that first small winning story and with the experience and skills learned from constantly writing, turn it into your first published novel.
Try and read the winning stories of competitions you enter and analyse them as dispassionately as you can to find what it was that made them the winners. Re-read your own work and again try to see why it missed out. Polish it once more, try it from another angle, maybe play with different aspects and send it out again. Don’t relegate a good idea to lie languishing in the dark at the bottom of a box. If it was a good idea once, it will remain a good idea, it just was not perhaps expressed well enough. Enter it again refreshed if need be.
Liz. ©
F.A.Q Do I have to stick to the rules of a competition? Surely the judges won't mind a few extra words?
A. Ooooh yes they will! Those few extra words when it comes down to a tie between your work and the story of another writer who hasn’t bent the rules, will cost you the win.
The rules are there to be followed that’s why they are rules. Liz ©
F.A.Q Are competitions worth entering when I never win and each one costs me money in entry fees and postage?
The reasons for writing for competitions are;
1. They make you learn to meet deadlines.
2. They sometimes make you write and think about certain themes and subjects you may normally not try.
3. Because of the above they will help teach you to research a subject.
4. They teach you to express ideas within a limited word count.
5. They encourage you to let go of your ‘children’ and make them compete with others.
6. If you take the trouble to read the winning entries, you will learn to judge the level and competency of your work with a more practiced eye.
7. If you write for competitions regularly you build your body of work steadily and give yourself ideas to return to and develop into other articles, stories and novels.
8. If you don’t win with a story you were sure was an outstanding effort. You are entitled to have a rant, feel disappointed and decide to give it all up for golf or whatever. Remember there are probably hundreds of us feeling the same and you will know that we will all do as you will. After your first practice game of golf you will have thought of a good plot for a murder on the 9th green, a romance in the clubhouse, an article on the history of golf and golf equipment, a travel blurb on the problems of green keeping in equatorial regions, funny golf ticks and habits that people develop, the psychology of a golfing tyrant etc, etc WHY? Because you are a writer and that’s what you do! Let’s face it, golf will also cost you a lot more money than a few entry fees and you’ll probably get wet and catch a cold anyway.
Liz ©
Monday, May 14, 2007
This piece shows how an idea for a spin-off story can be used once more in a difference way. The poem entitled ‘ The Bridge’ printed below. The competition the prose is written for required a mention of a bridge, so I borrowed my own work. I hope you all enjoy reading it.
THE BRIDGE.
The sprinklers cast rainbows of water across the grass as I sat watching my small daughter play in the shadows of a magnolia tree.
After trying to occupy my thoughts with a popular women’s magazine I put it to a more practical use and fanned my face with its pages as I waited for my mother to arrive.
We always met in the park. Our unspoken thoughts coinciding in the knowledge we both needed a neutral meeting place.
Her infrequent visits to my home had always instigated a frenzy of housework as I optimistically hoped she would one day utter a word of approval. I was never organized and the dust which rested quietly on our furnishings enjoyed long periods of undisturbed tranquility.
My visits to her home set my nerves jangling, especially when the boys were young and constantly inquisitive, asking questions and making unflattering comments about the strictures put on them by ‘grandma’s rules’. I spent anguished hours worrying that their boisterous behavior would result in some precious ornament or plant being destroyed.
The boys had reached their teens when to my dismay, my mother’s namesake Vanessa arrived. From the time she was born this little girl was an astonishing revelation. After years of good natured chaos from our sons she was a quiet, introspective child, wholly absorbed with the natural world around her. She loved all things botanical and, anything with more legs than two. Already she could name a dozens more plants and insects than I had known existed.
Along the gravel path on the other side of the small ornamental lake which shimmered as a breeze stirred the surface, I could see my mother striding confidently toward the small Japanese style bridge which crossed the water to the path leading to where we sat.
Vanessa squealed with delight and rushed to meet her grandmother. I watched my child holding something up for her to admire and saw my mother take something from her capacious bag to show Vanessa. Never in all my life could I remember her listening so attentively to me.
In a moment of clarity I at last saw my role in their lives.
I had grown up like my father and therefore patently unsatisfactory in my mother’s eyes and would have always remained so but, by producing Vanessa I had redeemed myself. I had become the bridge which allowed these two souls to meet. I was their link. I realized that of all the things she disapproved of about me, Vanessa was the most perfect gift I could have given her. The thanks, praise and small commendations I had looked for all my life were given here in this park, each time we met.
I put my face up to the warmth of the sun and smiled at the illusions of age and time as their happy voices and laughter drifted across the humid air between us as they turned to walk hand in hand toward me.(C)
The End.
THE BRIDGE.
The sprinklers cast rainbows of water across the grass as I sat watching my small daughter play in the shadows of a magnolia tree.
After trying to occupy my thoughts with a popular women’s magazine I put it to a more practical use and fanned my face with its pages as I waited for my mother to arrive.
We always met in the park. Our unspoken thoughts coinciding in the knowledge we both needed a neutral meeting place.
Her infrequent visits to my home had always instigated a frenzy of housework as I optimistically hoped she would one day utter a word of approval. I was never organized and the dust which rested quietly on our furnishings enjoyed long periods of undisturbed tranquility.
My visits to her home set my nerves jangling, especially when the boys were young and constantly inquisitive, asking questions and making unflattering comments about the strictures put on them by ‘grandma’s rules’. I spent anguished hours worrying that their boisterous behavior would result in some precious ornament or plant being destroyed.
The boys had reached their teens when to my dismay, my mother’s namesake Vanessa arrived. From the time she was born this little girl was an astonishing revelation. After years of good natured chaos from our sons she was a quiet, introspective child, wholly absorbed with the natural world around her. She loved all things botanical and, anything with more legs than two. Already she could name a dozens more plants and insects than I had known existed.
Along the gravel path on the other side of the small ornamental lake which shimmered as a breeze stirred the surface, I could see my mother striding confidently toward the small Japanese style bridge which crossed the water to the path leading to where we sat.
Vanessa squealed with delight and rushed to meet her grandmother. I watched my child holding something up for her to admire and saw my mother take something from her capacious bag to show Vanessa. Never in all my life could I remember her listening so attentively to me.
In a moment of clarity I at last saw my role in their lives.
I had grown up like my father and therefore patently unsatisfactory in my mother’s eyes and would have always remained so but, by producing Vanessa I had redeemed myself. I had become the bridge which allowed these two souls to meet. I was their link. I realized that of all the things she disapproved of about me, Vanessa was the most perfect gift I could have given her. The thanks, praise and small commendations I had looked for all my life were given here in this park, each time we met.
I put my face up to the warmth of the sun and smiled at the illusions of age and time as their happy voices and laughter drifted across the humid air between us as they turned to walk hand in hand toward me.(C)
The End.
FQ. Q. I want to be published so is it important to enter competitions?
A. Most writers write hoping one day to see their work published. Some will not need to enter competitions, but they are the lucky few who somehow slip through to an editor because of their previous work in other fields or specialist knowledge about a particular subject.
The rest of us pounding away in our writing nooks need to build our skills and reputations as writers to have any hope of having a manuscript obtain a favourable glance from an editor.
Competitions give us the chance to show our abilities to judges from many areas and in all parts of the world. There are competitions everywhere and you may find your writing style and interests meet American, English or, if you are lucky enough to have other languages in your skills, Italian, Greek etc. ( I have a friend who writes children’s stories for the Spanish market. He is an Englishman living in Australia! The world is at our fingertips and sitting on our desks inside our computers. How lucky are we to live at such a time?)
The more competitions we enter, the more people will read our work and the closer we get to possibly winning enough accolades to have a C.V that will begin to make editors of magazines and publishers sit up and take notice.
If you are a beginner, you may be so naturally talented that you will take out a prestigious prize with your first effort. Most of us don’t have the well polished skills to do this.
So begin with smaller competitions which perhaps only offer publication in a journal, a book prize, or perhaps, just a small monetary reward for your efforts.(- TIP; Frame that first cheque and put it above your desk. It will inspire you on the days when the words won’t come! )- It all counts. One day you may go back to that first small winning story and with the experience and skills learned from constantly writing, turn it into your first published novel.
Try and read the winning stories of competitions you enter and analyse them as dispassionately as you can to find what it was that made them the winners. Re-read your own work and again try to see why it missed out. Polish it once more, try it from another angle, maybe play with different aspects and send it out again. Don’t relegate a good idea to lie languishing in the dark at the bottom of a box. If it was a good idea once, it will remain a good idea, it just was not perhaps expressed well enough. Enter it again refreshed if need be.
Liz. ©
F.A.Q Do I have to stick to the rules of a competition? Surely the judges won’t mind a few extra words?
A. Ooooh yes they will! Those few extra words when it comes down to a tie between your work and the story of another writer who hasn’t bent the rules, will cost you the win.
The rules are there to be followed that’s why they are rules. Liz ©
F.A.Q Are competitions worth while entering when I never win and each one costs me money in entry fees, postage etc?
The reasons for writing for competitions are;
1. They make you learn to meet deadlines.
2. They sometimes make you write and think about certain themes and subjects you may normally not try.
3. Because of the above they will help teach you to research a subject.
4. They teach you to express ideas within a limited word count.
5. They encourage you to let go of your ‘children’ and make them compete with others.
6. If you take the trouble to read the winning entries, you will learn to judge the level and competency of your work with a more practiced eye.
7. If you write for competitions regularly you build your body of work steadily and give yourself ideas to return to and develop into other articles, stories and novels.
8. If you don’t win with a story you were sure was an outstanding effort. You are entitled to have a rant, feel disappointed and decide to give it all up for golf or whatever. Remember there are probably hundreds of us feeling the same and you will know that we will all do as you will. After your first practice game of golf you will have thought of a good plot for a murder on the 9th green, a romance in the clubhouse, an article on the history of golf and golf equipment, a travel blurb on the problems of green keeping in equatorial regions, funny golf ticks and habits that people develop, the psychology of a golfing tyrant etc, etc WHY? Because you are a writer and that’s what you do! Let’s face it, golf will also cost you a lot more money than a few entry fees and you’ll probably get wet and catch a cold anyway.
Liz ©
A. Most writers write hoping one day to see their work published. Some will not need to enter competitions, but they are the lucky few who somehow slip through to an editor because of their previous work in other fields or specialist knowledge about a particular subject.
The rest of us pounding away in our writing nooks need to build our skills and reputations as writers to have any hope of having a manuscript obtain a favourable glance from an editor.
Competitions give us the chance to show our abilities to judges from many areas and in all parts of the world. There are competitions everywhere and you may find your writing style and interests meet American, English or, if you are lucky enough to have other languages in your skills, Italian, Greek etc. ( I have a friend who writes children’s stories for the Spanish market. He is an Englishman living in Australia! The world is at our fingertips and sitting on our desks inside our computers. How lucky are we to live at such a time?)
The more competitions we enter, the more people will read our work and the closer we get to possibly winning enough accolades to have a C.V that will begin to make editors of magazines and publishers sit up and take notice.
If you are a beginner, you may be so naturally talented that you will take out a prestigious prize with your first effort. Most of us don’t have the well polished skills to do this.
So begin with smaller competitions which perhaps only offer publication in a journal, a book prize, or perhaps, just a small monetary reward for your efforts.(- TIP; Frame that first cheque and put it above your desk. It will inspire you on the days when the words won’t come! )- It all counts. One day you may go back to that first small winning story and with the experience and skills learned from constantly writing, turn it into your first published novel.
Try and read the winning stories of competitions you enter and analyse them as dispassionately as you can to find what it was that made them the winners. Re-read your own work and again try to see why it missed out. Polish it once more, try it from another angle, maybe play with different aspects and send it out again. Don’t relegate a good idea to lie languishing in the dark at the bottom of a box. If it was a good idea once, it will remain a good idea, it just was not perhaps expressed well enough. Enter it again refreshed if need be.
Liz. ©
F.A.Q Do I have to stick to the rules of a competition? Surely the judges won’t mind a few extra words?
A. Ooooh yes they will! Those few extra words when it comes down to a tie between your work and the story of another writer who hasn’t bent the rules, will cost you the win.
The rules are there to be followed that’s why they are rules. Liz ©
F.A.Q Are competitions worth while entering when I never win and each one costs me money in entry fees, postage etc?
The reasons for writing for competitions are;
1. They make you learn to meet deadlines.
2. They sometimes make you write and think about certain themes and subjects you may normally not try.
3. Because of the above they will help teach you to research a subject.
4. They teach you to express ideas within a limited word count.
5. They encourage you to let go of your ‘children’ and make them compete with others.
6. If you take the trouble to read the winning entries, you will learn to judge the level and competency of your work with a more practiced eye.
7. If you write for competitions regularly you build your body of work steadily and give yourself ideas to return to and develop into other articles, stories and novels.
8. If you don’t win with a story you were sure was an outstanding effort. You are entitled to have a rant, feel disappointed and decide to give it all up for golf or whatever. Remember there are probably hundreds of us feeling the same and you will know that we will all do as you will. After your first practice game of golf you will have thought of a good plot for a murder on the 9th green, a romance in the clubhouse, an article on the history of golf and golf equipment, a travel blurb on the problems of green keeping in equatorial regions, funny golf ticks and habits that people develop, the psychology of a golfing tyrant etc, etc WHY? Because you are a writer and that’s what you do! Let’s face it, golf will also cost you a lot more money than a few entry fees and you’ll probably get wet and catch a cold anyway.
Liz ©
Friday, April 6, 2007
Best Friends.
The atmosphere in the small kitchen was melancholy. How else could it be
after the death of Sandra's husband? A blackbird happily practicing his early spring song in the garden sounded incongruous in the heavy silence.
Suddenly Sandra spoke exasperatedly. "You know he made me feel unloved for
years? He always made me feel so unfeminine, even when we were young!"
Her loud voice shattered the silence as Mary stood in shocked disbelief at this statement.
Sandra was a well built, tallish woman, usually dressed in bright colors and who's
personality was so overwhelming, at times it seemed to bristle out and fill the space
around her.
"You've been married for thirty -seven years!" Mary at last replied.
"Mm, and I often wondered why."
"What do you mean you wondered why?"
"Why I stayed with him for so long?"
"You loved him didn't you?" Mary's voice broke as she asked
"I suppose. I did at the beginning. But, it didn't take me long to find he was weak
in so many ways. I despised his weakness and I lost my respect for him." She paused as she played with the sugar sweeping it about in the bowl. "He was clever, I'll grant himthat." Sandra added as an afterthought.
"Well." Mary's chin quivered a little. "Other women envied you such a charming man."
"Charm!" Sandra banged the table in front of her with her hand making Mary ump. "Don't talk to me about charm!" she continued. Her face tightening with anger.
Sometimes it made me feel sick seeing him playing up to fools taken in by his so-called.
charm.” "
Mary was stunned and overwhelmed by Sandra's words and turned to the sink
behind her, pretending to wash her already clean cup, in an effort to hide her confusion.
Her fluffy curls shook with her movements and her soft face vibrated a little as she tried to think clearly.
"Well, it's over now." She sighed heavily, " and you will miss him no matter what
you say."
"Oh yes. I will." Sandra agreed. "Oh yes, the house will be empty without him."
"Ready?" Mary queried.
"Almost. I have to get my coat It's good of you to come with me Mary." Her
voice softened a little as she looked at her friend of many years. She could be a generous and kind woman, Sandra reminded herself, as she contemplated her dumpy companion. It was strange that two women so different in outlook and character could get on so well for so long. Mary was a romantic and read 'drivel' as Sandra called it and she rarely ventured outside to do any physical activity.Sandra on the other hand. loved gardening and grubbing in the dirt. She enjoyed long walks and could often be seen striding along the paths of the small town accompanied by her dogs.
"It's the least I can do." Mary spoke softly, bringing Sandra out of her
thoughts. "After all, he was my friend too." Her voice broke as she turned away to the sink again.
"He had affairs you know."
Mary caught her breath momentarily.
"Oh yes, I knew." Sandra's voice became belligerent again. "He always
had someone else on a string. He just couldn't help himself Maybe it was because he
knew how I felt. Maybe he wanted to keep me angry with him. Who knows? He just had
to be always proving to himself how attractive he was to women. I just became sick of
the whole thing and got on with my life." She shrugged
"Did you know any of them?" Mary had to ask. Why to-day of all days did Sandra have to be so vindictive? It was getting too much for her.
"Oh yes. When we were younger he loved to make me jealous. It was a game with him. He loved the secrecy, it added an extra buzz to the affair but he liked me
to find out in time before it could get too 'difficult' for him and the woman would get too serious. Once I found out who it was, he would drop her and start looking for the next."
"He seemed to be such a good listener and so very understanding. " Mary was becoming more upset by the minute. Why, she wondered had they never spoken this intimately before? It could have saved so much hurt?
"Huh, listener my foot! He only appeared to listen. Usually his mind was somewhere else but, he knew giving someone the chance to talk: about themselves was sure way of getting them to like him."
"As she ended her venemous filled tirade Sandra looked up at caught a look of anger in Mary's eyes.
"You and he got on well didn't you? Did he ever tell you how he felt? Did he listen to your problems? Did he ever mention he wanted to leave me?"
"No... ... never." Mary's eyes slid away from Sandra's stare.
Sandra studied this woman she had known for so long, she knew when she knew she was lying. They had shared many things but had kept their intimate lives private. Being
the age they were. both women had been brought up to believe that private was just that,private.
She thought of shared things, had there been shared betrayals too? Little things
flitted through her mind. Pictures, fragments of memory. Gerry leaving her on her own
with the flu' while he rushes next door to fix Mary's washing machine. Gerry helping
Mary to carry heavy shopping and leaving her to struggle on her own. Gerry and Mary
sharing jokes, but not with her. All the little things that Gerry found to fix and do at Mary' house.
"What a fool I've been." She spoke menacingly as she walked around the table and stared in Mary's face. "You were the last one weren't you?" she hissed. "All the
years I thought you were my friend, but it was just an excuse for you to be near him. How stupid of me not to see it until now. How you both must have laughed at me . You treacherous bitch!"
She moved quickly and lashed her hand across Mary's face, shattering her glasses and flinging them across the floor.
Mary held her hands to her stinging cheek She was stunned, but could not retaliate. It was no use denying Sandra's accusations. Instead, her grief and guilt erupted
in an outpouring oflong held anger and tears streamed down her face making it look
blotched and older.
"I miss him even if you don't." she shrilled, fmding her voice at last "I loved him,
you didn't. You just liked to boss him about like some servant. It was only your money that kept him. You made him feel useless. unmanly. You didn't know what he needed. He needed a real woman. someone soft and gentle."
"Like you?" Sneered Sandra. "Soft. silly and simpering like you? Rolling your
eyes and giggling at him like some silly empty-headed teenager?" Sandra laughed "Oh
no. he needed someone with strength. That's why he played with you but stayed with me. He knew who would support and care for him if life got rough and yes. I did boss him and he loved it He hated taking responsibility. If I made the decisions that was good If they turned out to be bad decisions. it was my fault. he didn't have to take the blame or the responsibility."
"What? You truly think he was like that?"
"I know it my dear. I know it. Thirty seven years. remember?"
There was silence as the two women faced each other. reassessing and seeing each other anew.
Sandra sighed deeply and sat down at the table again.
"What's the use of this now? Tell me." she asked "What did he go to see you for the other night?"
Mary walked across the floor and began picking up the fragments of her glasses before she spoke. Then. slowly placing them on the table she tried to put her last
few moments of her time with Gerry into words.
"He came to say he wanted to finish our relationship." She fought back the tears as the memories flooded into her mind. "He said he knew he had made you unhappy for years and felt that now he was retired. he wanted to try and make amends. You know... make the last few years happier than the first ones."
Sandra's eyes widened and she asked huskily. "He really said that? You think he really meant it?" She tried to imagine Gerry confessing his remorse.
"Oh yes." Mary sobbed "He meant it Didn't he say anything to you when he got home? He said he was going to speak to you when he went back?"
The tears dripped off her chin and she remembered the anger and desolation that had overtaken her when Gerry, who had always promised her he would leave Sandra when he retired, made his announcement.
She had felt so betrayed and for a brief moment wanted to hurt him in return. Hurt him badly. In that brief terrifying time, she emptied the contents of three of
her heart medication capsules into his coffee. She wanted to make him sick enough to
need her, to stay with her. She didn't want to be alone anymore.
Now, she was unsure what had gone through her mind. All she knew was that he had died that night and it had been her fault She had been going to stop him from
drinking the coffee at the last minute but couldn't fmd the words quickly enough. The
sight of him swallowing its last dregs would haunt her forever.
"No, he didn't get the chance to speak to me." Sandra's voice came from miles away as she looked past Mary remembering Gerry walking into the kitchen. He had
tried to kiss her cheek but she had smelt the perfume on him. Might have guessed it was Mary's. She always wore something sweet and sickly.
She had told him crossly to leave her alone. He had shrugged and said he
felt a little ill and would lie down for a nap. He asked her to wake him, as he wanted to do something later.
She had sat in the kitchen brooding for a short time. Knowing he had been
with another woman again, and feeling incensed that he would still, after all these years,be playing the same silly games. All she wanted was a quiet few years, she was too tired of all the mind games that had been played for so long.
She thought he wanted to go out again to visit this new woman. Carefully,she had ground up some of her sleeping tablets and with a heap of sugar the way he liked
it, she took him in a drink . She remembered with a wrenching pain in her heart, that he had been grateful for her thoughtfulness. She had never thought they would be too much for him, that his heart had been weaker than she thought. She just wanted to keep him at home and make sure he missed his appointment with the other woman.
He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Heart attack"brought on by stress of some sort, plus he did have very high cholesterol. " Their family doctor
had patted her shoulder sympathetically.
The two women sat in silence, each occupied by their terrifying thoughts. Each
felt responsible and guilty. Neither could share their secret.
"If only he had been honest with us." Mary said sadly
"If only. .. lots of things." Sandra sighed
Sandra was the first to break the silence again. This time her voice had regained its customary resolute tone.
"Ready now?"
"Oh yes. " Mary fussed with her gloves and knitted hat. "Umm. There was no mention of an autopsy was there?" she asked, her head shaking a little.
"Good Heavens no!" Sandra exclaimed, amazed that Mary should have voiced her greatest fear. "Oh no, nothing like that was mentioned. Why on earth would they?" she demanded wide-eyed.
"Oh. No reason. " Mary hastened to placate her as they closed the door behind them.
"I believe this funeral director has a nice manner and won't try to push something
too expensive onto me. "Sandra spoke in a casual conversational manner. "After all, a
cremation is the most sensible decision anyway."
"Oh I agree." Mary nodded vigorously "I agree."
The End ©My Write
The atmosphere in the small kitchen was melancholy. How else could it be
after the death of Sandra's husband? A blackbird happily practicing his early spring song in the garden sounded incongruous in the heavy silence.
Suddenly Sandra spoke exasperatedly. "You know he made me feel unloved for
years? He always made me feel so unfeminine, even when we were young!"
Her loud voice shattered the silence as Mary stood in shocked disbelief at this statement.
Sandra was a well built, tallish woman, usually dressed in bright colors and who's
personality was so overwhelming, at times it seemed to bristle out and fill the space
around her.
"You've been married for thirty -seven years!" Mary at last replied.
"Mm, and I often wondered why."
"What do you mean you wondered why?"
"Why I stayed with him for so long?"
"You loved him didn't you?" Mary's voice broke as she asked
"I suppose. I did at the beginning. But, it didn't take me long to find he was weak
in so many ways. I despised his weakness and I lost my respect for him." She paused as she played with the sugar sweeping it about in the bowl. "He was clever, I'll grant himthat." Sandra added as an afterthought.
"Well." Mary's chin quivered a little. "Other women envied you such a charming man."
"Charm!" Sandra banged the table in front of her with her hand making Mary ump. "Don't talk to me about charm!" she continued. Her face tightening with anger.
Sometimes it made me feel sick seeing him playing up to fools taken in by his so-called.
charm.” "
Mary was stunned and overwhelmed by Sandra's words and turned to the sink
behind her, pretending to wash her already clean cup, in an effort to hide her confusion.
Her fluffy curls shook with her movements and her soft face vibrated a little as she tried to think clearly.
"Well, it's over now." She sighed heavily, " and you will miss him no matter what
you say."
"Oh yes. I will." Sandra agreed. "Oh yes, the house will be empty without him."
"Ready?" Mary queried.
"Almost. I have to get my coat It's good of you to come with me Mary." Her
voice softened a little as she looked at her friend of many years. She could be a generous and kind woman, Sandra reminded herself, as she contemplated her dumpy companion. It was strange that two women so different in outlook and character could get on so well for so long. Mary was a romantic and read 'drivel' as Sandra called it and she rarely ventured outside to do any physical activity.Sandra on the other hand. loved gardening and grubbing in the dirt. She enjoyed long walks and could often be seen striding along the paths of the small town accompanied by her dogs.
"It's the least I can do." Mary spoke softly, bringing Sandra out of her
thoughts. "After all, he was my friend too." Her voice broke as she turned away to the sink again.
"He had affairs you know."
Mary caught her breath momentarily.
"Oh yes, I knew." Sandra's voice became belligerent again. "He always
had someone else on a string. He just couldn't help himself Maybe it was because he
knew how I felt. Maybe he wanted to keep me angry with him. Who knows? He just had
to be always proving to himself how attractive he was to women. I just became sick of
the whole thing and got on with my life." She shrugged
"Did you know any of them?" Mary had to ask. Why to-day of all days did Sandra have to be so vindictive? It was getting too much for her.
"Oh yes. When we were younger he loved to make me jealous. It was a game with him. He loved the secrecy, it added an extra buzz to the affair but he liked me
to find out in time before it could get too 'difficult' for him and the woman would get too serious. Once I found out who it was, he would drop her and start looking for the next."
"He seemed to be such a good listener and so very understanding. " Mary was becoming more upset by the minute. Why, she wondered had they never spoken this intimately before? It could have saved so much hurt?
"Huh, listener my foot! He only appeared to listen. Usually his mind was somewhere else but, he knew giving someone the chance to talk: about themselves was sure way of getting them to like him."
"As she ended her venemous filled tirade Sandra looked up at caught a look of anger in Mary's eyes.
"You and he got on well didn't you? Did he ever tell you how he felt? Did he listen to your problems? Did he ever mention he wanted to leave me?"
"No... ... never." Mary's eyes slid away from Sandra's stare.
Sandra studied this woman she had known for so long, she knew when she knew she was lying. They had shared many things but had kept their intimate lives private. Being
the age they were. both women had been brought up to believe that private was just that,private.
She thought of shared things, had there been shared betrayals too? Little things
flitted through her mind. Pictures, fragments of memory. Gerry leaving her on her own
with the flu' while he rushes next door to fix Mary's washing machine. Gerry helping
Mary to carry heavy shopping and leaving her to struggle on her own. Gerry and Mary
sharing jokes, but not with her. All the little things that Gerry found to fix and do at Mary' house.
"What a fool I've been." She spoke menacingly as she walked around the table and stared in Mary's face. "You were the last one weren't you?" she hissed. "All the
years I thought you were my friend, but it was just an excuse for you to be near him. How stupid of me not to see it until now. How you both must have laughed at me . You treacherous bitch!"
She moved quickly and lashed her hand across Mary's face, shattering her glasses and flinging them across the floor.
Mary held her hands to her stinging cheek She was stunned, but could not retaliate. It was no use denying Sandra's accusations. Instead, her grief and guilt erupted
in an outpouring oflong held anger and tears streamed down her face making it look
blotched and older.
"I miss him even if you don't." she shrilled, fmding her voice at last "I loved him,
you didn't. You just liked to boss him about like some servant. It was only your money that kept him. You made him feel useless. unmanly. You didn't know what he needed. He needed a real woman. someone soft and gentle."
"Like you?" Sneered Sandra. "Soft. silly and simpering like you? Rolling your
eyes and giggling at him like some silly empty-headed teenager?" Sandra laughed "Oh
no. he needed someone with strength. That's why he played with you but stayed with me. He knew who would support and care for him if life got rough and yes. I did boss him and he loved it He hated taking responsibility. If I made the decisions that was good If they turned out to be bad decisions. it was my fault. he didn't have to take the blame or the responsibility."
"What? You truly think he was like that?"
"I know it my dear. I know it. Thirty seven years. remember?"
There was silence as the two women faced each other. reassessing and seeing each other anew.
Sandra sighed deeply and sat down at the table again.
"What's the use of this now? Tell me." she asked "What did he go to see you for the other night?"
Mary walked across the floor and began picking up the fragments of her glasses before she spoke. Then. slowly placing them on the table she tried to put her last
few moments of her time with Gerry into words.
"He came to say he wanted to finish our relationship." She fought back the tears as the memories flooded into her mind. "He said he knew he had made you unhappy for years and felt that now he was retired. he wanted to try and make amends. You know... make the last few years happier than the first ones."
Sandra's eyes widened and she asked huskily. "He really said that? You think he really meant it?" She tried to imagine Gerry confessing his remorse.
"Oh yes." Mary sobbed "He meant it Didn't he say anything to you when he got home? He said he was going to speak to you when he went back?"
The tears dripped off her chin and she remembered the anger and desolation that had overtaken her when Gerry, who had always promised her he would leave Sandra when he retired, made his announcement.
She had felt so betrayed and for a brief moment wanted to hurt him in return. Hurt him badly. In that brief terrifying time, she emptied the contents of three of
her heart medication capsules into his coffee. She wanted to make him sick enough to
need her, to stay with her. She didn't want to be alone anymore.
Now, she was unsure what had gone through her mind. All she knew was that he had died that night and it had been her fault She had been going to stop him from
drinking the coffee at the last minute but couldn't fmd the words quickly enough. The
sight of him swallowing its last dregs would haunt her forever.
"No, he didn't get the chance to speak to me." Sandra's voice came from miles away as she looked past Mary remembering Gerry walking into the kitchen. He had
tried to kiss her cheek but she had smelt the perfume on him. Might have guessed it was Mary's. She always wore something sweet and sickly.
She had told him crossly to leave her alone. He had shrugged and said he
felt a little ill and would lie down for a nap. He asked her to wake him, as he wanted to do something later.
She had sat in the kitchen brooding for a short time. Knowing he had been
with another woman again, and feeling incensed that he would still, after all these years,be playing the same silly games. All she wanted was a quiet few years, she was too tired of all the mind games that had been played for so long.
She thought he wanted to go out again to visit this new woman. Carefully,she had ground up some of her sleeping tablets and with a heap of sugar the way he liked
it, she took him in a drink . She remembered with a wrenching pain in her heart, that he had been grateful for her thoughtfulness. She had never thought they would be too much for him, that his heart had been weaker than she thought. She just wanted to keep him at home and make sure he missed his appointment with the other woman.
He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Heart attack"brought on by stress of some sort, plus he did have very high cholesterol. " Their family doctor
had patted her shoulder sympathetically.
The two women sat in silence, each occupied by their terrifying thoughts. Each
felt responsible and guilty. Neither could share their secret.
"If only he had been honest with us." Mary said sadly
"If only. .. lots of things." Sandra sighed
Sandra was the first to break the silence again. This time her voice had regained its customary resolute tone.
"Ready now?"
"Oh yes. " Mary fussed with her gloves and knitted hat. "Umm. There was no mention of an autopsy was there?" she asked, her head shaking a little.
"Good Heavens no!" Sandra exclaimed, amazed that Mary should have voiced her greatest fear. "Oh no, nothing like that was mentioned. Why on earth would they?" she demanded wide-eyed.
"Oh. No reason. " Mary hastened to placate her as they closed the door behind them.
"I believe this funeral director has a nice manner and won't try to push something
too expensive onto me. "Sandra spoke in a casual conversational manner. "After all, a
cremation is the most sensible decision anyway."
"Oh I agree." Mary nodded vigorously "I agree."
The End ©My Write
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