Poems are such personal forms of literature.
Last Night there was a programme on BBC4 about the lavicious lifestyle of Lord Byron. I knew very little of his life story, not surprising when you think I studied his poems whilst attending an all girl's school where such things were never discussed. I loved his Prisoner of Chillon, not realising how Byron associated himself with the ancient stories of an imprisoned freedom fighter.
Rupert Everret rowed over to the Isle where both Byron and Shelley left their names carved into the dungeon rocks as grafitti. It brought a sense of being able to touch the past by visiting the present.
Sometimes I feel the same way about places I visit. Our recent trip to Northumberland inspired me record a memory of one of the Caravan Club Certified locations. There wasn't time for me to write such a beautiful and carefully crafted ode as Lord Byron, but it was enough to win me second place in the Solihull Writer's workshop annual poetry competition judged by the Birmingham poet laureat, Chris Morgan. Brenda Langmead won first prize, with her poignant memorial to her great aunt.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Monday, 13 July 2009
Making wishes come true!
What gives you inspiration to write? This is a question I am often asked. My usual reply includes the sage thought, “Writers write about what they know”. We all do this. We use experiences, phrases, stories told by others and pictures we see in our minds to weave a web of words to create something new, but which is based firmly in our own reality.
The opportunity for stories comes in many different guises. Take last week. I was sitting on New Street station in Birmingham waiting for a train to take me to Sheffield for a regular meeting with my line manager. The train was late and the man sitting next to me became very agitated. He was travelling to Leeds for a meeting with a different law firm from mine and was worried he would be very late.
“Why are you going to Sheffield?” he asked.
“My boss likes to make sure I’m alive and being nice to people.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m still alive yet 15 years ago a man was charged with my manslaughter. The police weren’t so nice then as they are today.”
It seemed such a strange fact to be sharing with a total stranger on a railway station. In one way I could wish there had been opportunity to discuss his life story further, but even so, he offered me the perfect beginning to a murder mystery or thriller – if I wrote those genres!
So where did The Lady and the Bull come from?
In 1999, Cornwall saw a total eclipse of the sun. It was also the year I decided to start visiting ancient sites all over the county. While my family enjoyed themselves at Shires adventure park, I went in search of some standing stones on the moor and Pawton Quoit. As I walked along a farm track, I was accosted by two traveller’s dogs. The owner came out of their landrover and quietened them so I could pass.
The following week, a fellow camper and I spent a day hunting stone circles, quoits and holy wells. When we reached Madron Well, a family were already inside the chapel. The mother was breastfeeding her baby while their two older children sat quietly on the stone seats by the alter. One of the two men with her asked me if I wanted to taste the water inside the baptistery and gave me instructions how to step on the middle stone.
I refused, feeling nervous and worried I would slip into the water. It was something I always regretted. When I returned the following year, the baptistery was dry – the local farmer had diverted the water supply from the sacred well. It was ten years before the water flowed again, thanks finally to the work of Andy Norfolk and others who love the site.
Even when I did collect water flowing into the stone baptistery, having gone to the chapel again with some German friends of ours, I was accosted by a local busybody who told me it was contaminated and shouldn’t be drunk!
But what of The Lady and the Bull? The story began as an account of our original day in West Penwith, which was eventually published in Circle magazine a year later. Then I took the first 500 words and decided to see what would happen if the woman who refused the water went back. The man who told me how to collect the water fascinated me. What would happen if he were still around? What was his history? What would she learn from being associated with him?
It was a difficult story to write. I had a vague idea of the outline, but in the end, the story decided what it wished to portray. When writing dialogue became a challenge, I was grateful to a friend of mine for helping to role play some of the scenes online so I could use the saved script as a basis for parts of the story.
For me, creating The Lady and the Bull was a profound teaching experience, helping me to understand a spiritual concept in greater detail. My readers may enjoy it for the developing romance and descriptions of wonderful Cornish countryside.
My only sadness is the fate of Altarnun bowsenning pool. I wish it were the clear, bathing pool it once was and could be again. Unfortunately, the farmer who owns the land appears to have no wish to conserve it and has not co-operated with local Cornish Archaeologists. The Parish Council at Altarnun is similarly uninterested in saving their unique heritage for future generations despite approaches by myself and others from the Wells and Spas community.
The Roman remains lie hidden and inaccessible under fallen trees and undergrowth. Maybe, the strength of the story will somehow reach out and touch the future in a way we cannot perceive today.
The opportunity for stories comes in many different guises. Take last week. I was sitting on New Street station in Birmingham waiting for a train to take me to Sheffield for a regular meeting with my line manager. The train was late and the man sitting next to me became very agitated. He was travelling to Leeds for a meeting with a different law firm from mine and was worried he would be very late.
“Why are you going to Sheffield?” he asked.
“My boss likes to make sure I’m alive and being nice to people.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m still alive yet 15 years ago a man was charged with my manslaughter. The police weren’t so nice then as they are today.”
It seemed such a strange fact to be sharing with a total stranger on a railway station. In one way I could wish there had been opportunity to discuss his life story further, but even so, he offered me the perfect beginning to a murder mystery or thriller – if I wrote those genres!
So where did The Lady and the Bull come from?
In 1999, Cornwall saw a total eclipse of the sun. It was also the year I decided to start visiting ancient sites all over the county. While my family enjoyed themselves at Shires adventure park, I went in search of some standing stones on the moor and Pawton Quoit. As I walked along a farm track, I was accosted by two traveller’s dogs. The owner came out of their landrover and quietened them so I could pass.
The following week, a fellow camper and I spent a day hunting stone circles, quoits and holy wells. When we reached Madron Well, a family were already inside the chapel. The mother was breastfeeding her baby while their two older children sat quietly on the stone seats by the alter. One of the two men with her asked me if I wanted to taste the water inside the baptistery and gave me instructions how to step on the middle stone.
I refused, feeling nervous and worried I would slip into the water. It was something I always regretted. When I returned the following year, the baptistery was dry – the local farmer had diverted the water supply from the sacred well. It was ten years before the water flowed again, thanks finally to the work of Andy Norfolk and others who love the site.
Even when I did collect water flowing into the stone baptistery, having gone to the chapel again with some German friends of ours, I was accosted by a local busybody who told me it was contaminated and shouldn’t be drunk!
But what of The Lady and the Bull? The story began as an account of our original day in West Penwith, which was eventually published in Circle magazine a year later. Then I took the first 500 words and decided to see what would happen if the woman who refused the water went back. The man who told me how to collect the water fascinated me. What would happen if he were still around? What was his history? What would she learn from being associated with him?
It was a difficult story to write. I had a vague idea of the outline, but in the end, the story decided what it wished to portray. When writing dialogue became a challenge, I was grateful to a friend of mine for helping to role play some of the scenes online so I could use the saved script as a basis for parts of the story.
For me, creating The Lady and the Bull was a profound teaching experience, helping me to understand a spiritual concept in greater detail. My readers may enjoy it for the developing romance and descriptions of wonderful Cornish countryside.
My only sadness is the fate of Altarnun bowsenning pool. I wish it were the clear, bathing pool it once was and could be again. Unfortunately, the farmer who owns the land appears to have no wish to conserve it and has not co-operated with local Cornish Archaeologists. The Parish Council at Altarnun is similarly uninterested in saving their unique heritage for future generations despite approaches by myself and others from the Wells and Spas community.
The Roman remains lie hidden and inaccessible under fallen trees and undergrowth. Maybe, the strength of the story will somehow reach out and touch the future in a way we cannot perceive today.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Writing articles
Most people who call themselves writers refer to their ability to create fiction, but many careers rest on the art of article writing. Ask any academic what keeps them in post and considered the leading light in a particular field and they will reel off a list of articles published in academic and popular journals. Indeed, you cannot apply for any research or lecturing university post unless you have published copious amounts of academic articles. Even junior pre-registration doctors start their careers with their name at the very end of a list of collaborators of a piece of published research.
While writers struggle to place short stories in a dwindling number of popular magazines, the market for article writing is much broader. As well as professional journals which require each article to be peer reviewed before they publish, there are also niche market publications and most charities and societies will have their own in-house publications which are usually desperate for copy.
Unfortunately the potential for payment for writing articles is probably just as limited as it is for stories. Most special interest commercial magazines will pay for one or two page articles and will provide their own illustrations. This is true of some professional magazines as well, although the dilemma then is - did you write them in your own time or in work time? If you claim the fee for yourself, you have to declare it for tax purposes, which then upsets your PAYE arrangements and brings you the delights of a fully fledged tax return.
Most special interest magazines and some professional journals will not pay for articles, even though they are commercial ventures with a cost per copy to their reading public. They claim they don’t have the resources to pay their feature writers. Instead you receive two copies of the magazine, so you can keep all your articles in a folder to impress new editors or lend them to friends to dazzle them with your achievements in the big wide world.
To write a good article, the process is the same as for stories. You need a title which will catch the eye of your reader. (This may be your own or may be provided by the magazine editor of a newspaper sub-editor.) Your first sentence must be dynamic and engage the reader before they turn the page and move on to something else.
Every article has an introduction, a middle and a conclusion. You tell the reader what you’re going to tell them, tell them and then describe what you’ve told them. Short articles need short, interesting sentences which move the information forward, trying not to drown the reader in whatever technical jargon might be involved. A designated word length helps to keep the writer focused, making sure each word helps to improve the article’s “story”.
I am not a prolific article writer, but I am successful in getting my articles published in both professional and niche market publications based both in the UK and the US. I write about the health service, mainly using stories told to me during my time supporting complainants. I also write about herbs and esoteric matters, depending on what subject matter tickles my fancy.
Article writing has been on my mind recently because I’ve had another complaints article published in Health Care Risk Report this week. The article argues the moral case to investigate a complaint after the statutory time limit has passed because sometimes people are too traumatised by an event to complain earlier.
I’ve also been writing two articles for the Solihull Writers Workshop annual non-fiction writing competition, adjudicated and sponsored by a former member, Mike Megano. Both articles are about subjects I’m interested in and hopefully, after the competition I shall send them out somewhere for possible publication.
While writers struggle to place short stories in a dwindling number of popular magazines, the market for article writing is much broader. As well as professional journals which require each article to be peer reviewed before they publish, there are also niche market publications and most charities and societies will have their own in-house publications which are usually desperate for copy.
Unfortunately the potential for payment for writing articles is probably just as limited as it is for stories. Most special interest commercial magazines will pay for one or two page articles and will provide their own illustrations. This is true of some professional magazines as well, although the dilemma then is - did you write them in your own time or in work time? If you claim the fee for yourself, you have to declare it for tax purposes, which then upsets your PAYE arrangements and brings you the delights of a fully fledged tax return.
Most special interest magazines and some professional journals will not pay for articles, even though they are commercial ventures with a cost per copy to their reading public. They claim they don’t have the resources to pay their feature writers. Instead you receive two copies of the magazine, so you can keep all your articles in a folder to impress new editors or lend them to friends to dazzle them with your achievements in the big wide world.
To write a good article, the process is the same as for stories. You need a title which will catch the eye of your reader. (This may be your own or may be provided by the magazine editor of a newspaper sub-editor.) Your first sentence must be dynamic and engage the reader before they turn the page and move on to something else.
Every article has an introduction, a middle and a conclusion. You tell the reader what you’re going to tell them, tell them and then describe what you’ve told them. Short articles need short, interesting sentences which move the information forward, trying not to drown the reader in whatever technical jargon might be involved. A designated word length helps to keep the writer focused, making sure each word helps to improve the article’s “story”.
I am not a prolific article writer, but I am successful in getting my articles published in both professional and niche market publications based both in the UK and the US. I write about the health service, mainly using stories told to me during my time supporting complainants. I also write about herbs and esoteric matters, depending on what subject matter tickles my fancy.
Article writing has been on my mind recently because I’ve had another complaints article published in Health Care Risk Report this week. The article argues the moral case to investigate a complaint after the statutory time limit has passed because sometimes people are too traumatised by an event to complain earlier.
I’ve also been writing two articles for the Solihull Writers Workshop annual non-fiction writing competition, adjudicated and sponsored by a former member, Mike Megano. Both articles are about subjects I’m interested in and hopefully, after the competition I shall send them out somewhere for possible publication.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Poems from 2008
In June 2008, one of the items for Solihull Writers Workshop was a considered poetry evening. We provided copies of one of more poems to each member of the group for them to read and provide a critique during the following meeting.
The first poem is an addition to a collection I wrote around death and bereavement. This poem is about loss of a different kind. Sometimes I work with organisations who support people with brain injuries and their families. The last verse was taken from comments made by a brain injury sufferer at a workshop I ran in London on Coping with Loss.
Sometimes when I feel a poem coming on, I let my pen run away with me. I used to do this a lot as a teenager, less frequently now. This was how the second poem was born. I was possibly imagining a scene from the televised versions of Cranford or Lark Rise to Candleford, with Tinker's Squeezebox frightening the chickens and elderly parishoners feeling the urge to dance coursing through their limbs.
After the event
Mirror, mirror hanging there
You show a face, a face so fair
But though the eyes are shining bright
The world behind has lost its light
I cannot see
The person
Who once
Was
Me
A stranger stands before you now
With different speech and thoughts that go
Around my head in different ways
I never thought
I could have changed
So fast
Now I scan the camera views
Of people whom they tell me knew
My former self
They look confused and wonder why
I cannot look them in the eye
With smiling familiarity
All strangers now
To the new
Me
I still have thoughts and hopes and fears
My heart still beats, I still shed tears
And if I don’t remember you
Forget the past and think anew
Of what I can still be and do
A different me
A future new
And when we sit and drink our tea
I beg you, please don’t cry
And say how much you miss me.
I’m here,
Beside you
Still here
Not gone
I’m me.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with me again?
My legs are sore and buckle
In the breeze
But will you dance?
I hear a fiddler on the green
Mark out the tune
A squeezebox stirs
Coughing its melody
As chickens fly
Will you dance with me again?
I see hawthorn draped
Across the rose
Summer calls and I must follow
Follow, follow
Down the lane.
The first poem is an addition to a collection I wrote around death and bereavement. This poem is about loss of a different kind. Sometimes I work with organisations who support people with brain injuries and their families. The last verse was taken from comments made by a brain injury sufferer at a workshop I ran in London on Coping with Loss.
Sometimes when I feel a poem coming on, I let my pen run away with me. I used to do this a lot as a teenager, less frequently now. This was how the second poem was born. I was possibly imagining a scene from the televised versions of Cranford or Lark Rise to Candleford, with Tinker's Squeezebox frightening the chickens and elderly parishoners feeling the urge to dance coursing through their limbs.
After the event
Mirror, mirror hanging there
You show a face, a face so fair
But though the eyes are shining bright
The world behind has lost its light
I cannot see
The person
Who once
Was
Me
A stranger stands before you now
With different speech and thoughts that go
Around my head in different ways
I never thought
I could have changed
So fast
Now I scan the camera views
Of people whom they tell me knew
My former self
They look confused and wonder why
I cannot look them in the eye
With smiling familiarity
All strangers now
To the new
Me
I still have thoughts and hopes and fears
My heart still beats, I still shed tears
And if I don’t remember you
Forget the past and think anew
Of what I can still be and do
A different me
A future new
And when we sit and drink our tea
I beg you, please don’t cry
And say how much you miss me.
I’m here,
Beside you
Still here
Not gone
I’m me.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with me again?
My legs are sore and buckle
In the breeze
But will you dance?
I hear a fiddler on the green
Mark out the tune
A squeezebox stirs
Coughing its melody
As chickens fly
Will you dance with me again?
I see hawthorn draped
Across the rose
Summer calls and I must follow
Follow, follow
Down the lane.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Welcome to Mercian Muse
There are many ways to write and many audiences to reach. Some people write entirely for themselves but I have always believed my words don't live unless read by someone else. This blog is to share some of my writing with you. If you enjoy it, tell me by leaving a comment. If you think something could be improved, show me what changes you think would be helpful. If you want to read more, maybe buy my books and stories - the links are on the side!
Here are some extracts:-
The Strongest Magick
An Arthurian romance telling the story of Ygraine, priestess of Avalon & Agryffan, Prince of Orkney. The Strongest Magick celebrates the relationship between love for the Old Ways and the land of Britain when King Arthur threatens to lay waste the countryside by turning to the God of the East.
The Strongest Magick is an Arthurian novel from a different perspective. It celebrates the infinity of spirit, showing a woman's re-awakening to the possibilities of love and her own indigenous power. Ygraine's life has been full of sacrifice. She is beautiful, innocent, fragile - but mostly expendable; her task complete once she hands baby Arthur over to Merlin for safekeeping and training. Torn from the man she loves to marry another at her father's bidding, she grieves for her Sidhe lover, not realising he has already returned to her. Every woman has the essence of the Goddess inside her. When she is a trained priestess of Avalon, tied to the land of Britain by the son she bore to unite its people, how can she stand by and see the land suffer as her people turn from the Old Ways towards the new God from the East?
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-259-6
Length: 128,600 Words
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Rating: Shooting Star
$6.99
Excerpt:
Soon all was ready. Ygraine picked up a fallen branch and began to beat the rhythm of a heartbeat against an old oak. The men took their shields and beat upon them with their daggers following her rhythmic lead. This was not a call to arms, or a display of power to strike fear into the heart of an enemy, this was the call to spirit, both seen and unseen, that they might use this place for their worship.
When the rhythm was strong, she borrowed a shield and without dropping a beat, began the dance of welcome. In and out of the men she wove, bidding them follow her in the dragon dance to call up the wisdom of the earth to assist their rites. Round the grove they danced and up and down until everyone could feel their blood coursing through their veins and warmth stealing into their fingers and toes from the very earth they danced upon.
Finally, she slowed the beat and brought them back to the circle around the fire and the altar. As they stood for a moment, to get their breath, Ygraine realised Agryffan had donned his priestly headdress of deer antlers entwined with ivy. At other times he had hidden his face behind the stag, but tonight she could see his features clearly. His eyes were golden and glowing in the moonlight and the dragons on his wrists writhed about his arms. She knew there would come a time when she would be asked to bear the dragons for him and she wondered if they would find her worthy after such a long absence.
The glade breathed in the silence, shadows beginning to form beneath the trees. Ygraine could feel their interest as they touched the minds of each person, seeking to know purpose and intent at this time of power. Ygraine took the cup and filled it with clear water, turning to the four directions and honouring the world above and below before offering libation to the earth. Then she knelt before Agryffan, waiting for him to charge it with his dagger, acutely aware of his moment of thrust as if he had struck the blade through her instead of the water. Together they shared the first sip. The strength of the liquid took her breath away. She would have dropped the cup if Agryffan had not steadied her.
"Breathe," he whispered. "It has been too long since you drew power unto yourself and your body has become unused to its strength. Breathe in the night and let our Mother give you strength for what must be done."
Ygraine did as he said and soon the dizziness lifted. She was able to take the cup to the men around the circle so that they too might share in its life-giving force. When this was done, Agryffan took the cup and shared it with Bronwyn and Sianna, hailing the three of them as the manifestation of the triple Goddess, maiden, mother and crone. Ygraine thought he would place the ivy circlet on Sianna's head, for the Maiden ruled this time of the year, but he drew her to him and took out all the braids from her hair, using his long fingers as a comb until it hung free like any maiden's on her wedding night.
"Now is the time outside of time." he said to her, "Gone are the times before and the times to come. As the earth renews Herself each year with the rising of the sap and the wakening of the seeds from their sleep in the rich soil, so too do I call you to awaken, Spring Maiden! Feel within your blood the life force return. Draw down from the moon the power of the Goddess herself to bring you new life, new love, new heart."
Tenderly he placed the circlet of woven ivy upon Ygraine's head and she raised her arms to invoke the power of the full moon. Like a sudden shower, the power began to flood into her. All she could do was close her eyes and accept what was given. She could feel the transformation around her and knew that when she opened her eyes the whole world would be different. She heard the trees begin to groan, as if wakened from their winter sleep too soon. Birds began to sing amongst the branches and into her nostrils came the sweetest scent of apple blossom she had smelt since leaving Avalon so many years before.
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Ygraine opened her eyes and was greeted with the sight of a glade transformed. All around, trees were in new washed leaf and blossom hung from the many ancient wild apple trees bordering the glade. The moon turned from her silver radiance to the golden light of day so everything shone and sparkled. Beyond the circle she could see rabbits feeding in the short grass and deer cropped leaves of low hanging branches. A lone hare hopped into the circle and sat, twitching her nose at those within for several breathtaking moments before ambling away to the security of the bushes. Both fox and badger stood and watched as they made their way along ancient unseen tracks. They took no notice of the other animals, as if their Lord were nearby and all creatures were at peace in His presence.
At Home And Away
Many people record images of their home and holidays with still or moving pictures. Between the covers of this book lie two collections of images captured in words so readers can paint their own picture of the scene. A Natural Year reflects the ever-changing, unchanging cycles of archetypal English countryside as experienced in the herb gardens in Warwickshire and the Cotswolds, where land has been cultivated since Neolithic times. Memories of Cornwall takes you to the ancient coastline of Cornwall over many summer holidays. You can play with children on the beach, watch the moon rise over the English Channel, or visit the many sacred sites within the county.
Whether listening for the sound of bees, smelling primroses or tasting snowballs, allow yourself to be transported to another place where Nature will hold you and nurture an inner peace.
Excerpt
Lament for Winter
Where is the snow?
In this dark time, earth sleeps
Ploughed furrows wait for frost
Seeds hide deep
Thick coats longing for scarification
Black clouds hover overhead
Brooding, resentful
Firing raindrops in sullen, pounding waves
Drenching an over-watered land
Where man-made lights stay lit throughout the day
No bright noon-times
No golden-dawned sun dazzling ice-sculptured
windows
No chilled gasps of freezing air
No clouds of steam from feeding herds
No ice-covered troughs
No skating on frozen ponds
No toboggan rides down slopes
No snowmen with coal-black eyes and orange noses
No snowballs to throw or taste
No orange globes set fire to evening skies
No joy, no laughter, no fun!
Just damp, mud, rain
Not cold, not warm
Just soggy leaves from trees who seem unsure about sleeping
It is the time of dark, of rest
It rains.
Insect Song
There are spiders on the curtains
There are earwigs on the light
There are lacewings on the windows
When all is dark at night
There are ants on all the circle stones
Chasing us away
They only fly but once a year
Why should it be today?
There are bees upon the heather
Butterflies on the gorse
Damsel flies, green and turquoise,
Glitter along the course
Why are dragonflies so enormous?
Why does honey come from bees?
Why do flies drown in my teacup?
What do insects mean to me?
Bees and butterflies suck the pollen
Ants and beetles prey on leaves
Sandhoppers dance on seaweed
And they sometimes dance on me!
So many shapes and sizes
Different colours, different hues
At least there are no scorpions
Hiding in my shoes!
FREE READS
Going for a drink
A true tale from Community Health Council Days - who supports the supporters?
Healing across time
Past life regression has unexpected consequences...
Excerpt:
As the sun began its downward path, she stopped; searching for food in her pack. Dried meat and bread took time to chew, but they stopped the pangs in her belly until it was time to sleep. She rested against a low rock, watching clouds chase each other above other mountain peaks. A sudden flicker of movement caught her attention. When she turned, a man sat watching her on the other side of the trail.
"Where has he come from?" Claire wondered. The man sat, his arms relaxed against his sides, showing he meant no harm. His face bore marks of deep weathering from many seasons.
"He's not from my people." The men of her tribe kept their faces shaved, but this man's beard was flecked with grey, his hair hanging loose past his shoulders. His clothes seemed familiar, but his deerskin was dyed green and underneath she could see a cloth shirt nestling against his skin. His eyes were shaded by the broad brimmed hat he wore. She knew enough of strangers not to seek his gaze, lest it give him power over her before she set her own protection.
"Why is he here?" She made no move to greet him, trying to make some sense of his presence. "Am I not to travel alone?" she wondered. "Have the Old Ones sent me a companion, or is this just another test I must endure?
His tangled web
Internet friendships can become complicated when you don't tell the truth
Excerpt:
He expected me in velvet.
"I always see you in velvet" he said, when I admitted velvet skirts were my favourite clothes for relaxation. A style left over from the swinging sixties. A time of love, peace and goodwill to all men. A time I wanted to be part of, but missed by several years, hating the torn t-shirts, safety pins and spiked hair of the punks who coloured my adolescence.
I wanted to float, to dream, to spend time doing nothing except watch the sunrise and sunset and the glories which fall between.
Life isn't like that. When you finish feeding your mind with facts other people want you to know, there is work and work and more work. If you're lucky and find the right person, there is love and play and homes and children and joy and cares and tears and laughter.
I used to watch them. The mothers walking their children to school - clean clothes, neat hair, book bags dangling by their sides. Skipping along holding hands, with the light of enthusiasm still bright in their eyes. I watched them grow older as they changed schools. Boys with shirts hanging over their trousers, ties askew, girls in tight, short skirts and no coats no matter how cold the weather.
It didn't happen like that for me. There was never the right time, the right place, the right job. I thought there was the right man, but he was taken when I met him, bound up in commitments to wife, mortgage, children. There was passion, but he offered no promises, suggesting future opportunities, but the future has a habit of disappearing, subsumed by the present, making me realise the futility of allowing my future to be fashioned from the crumbs of another's possibilities. After fifteen years, I said farewell, taking my leave, determined to find a sunset of my own choosing.
I was growing old. The endless chatter of students brushing past me as I took my lunchtime walk in the park annoyed me. They spilled out over footpaths like a mindless sea, brushing aside anyone or anything in their way. I was invisible. The middle aged woman in the long green coat, merging with the hawthorn hedge or disappearing into the yew grove when no-one was looking.
"Will you come and hear me sing?"
The question surprised me. He lived so far away, why would he want me to come and listen to his songs? It wasn't as if we were real, we'd only been talking over the internet for a short time. It felt like a short time. Late at night in the darkness of winter when spring was still a glimmer of hope suggested by violets we came across one another. An evening of laughter. He made me smile. I appreciated the quick wit and banter, but did not expect to talk to him again.
I was wrong.
We found so many things to talk about. Music, books, work, play – the list was endless and immaterial. We talked. We shared experiences, hopes, the small minutiae of our daily lives. I learned the names of his colleagues and cousins, heard about their children, lives and events. I shared the pressures of my daily life,frustrations with my clients, the uncertainties of my job.
Somehow it made it easier having someone else to tell. He became my sounding board for new ideas, a sponge absorbing my emotions, helping me back towards a sense of balance. He was my friend.
We joked about meeting one day, about visiting art galleries in our wheelchairs, chaperoned by uniformed attendants who would push us where we wanted to go. I knew it wouldn't happen. He was too far away. There was no reason to spend so much money on just a trip.
I knew he would never visit me. Things were so different for him. It was as much as he could do to earn enough to keep himself and his son. His ex-wife had a drink problem and didn't work so he gave her money to keep her from losing a roof over her head. He blamed himself for what she had become, no matter how much I tried to show him it wasn't his fault, that we all choose our own path and walk it alone.
So how did I come to be standing here, outside the bar where I knew he was singing tonight?
Tears in a Dry Land - WARNING Chapters 6 and 8 contain adult content.
A romance from the shores of an ancient Mediterranean
Excerpt:
The girl stood in the shadow of the mud house to watch the rich man's progress through the market place. Her ragged dress could not hide the thickening of her waist. Her head was covered with a heavy veil to keep out dust swirling around on the hot wind from the desert.
Sometimes, men -- strangers to this place - thought her condition made her an easy target for their desires, but others would soon warn them about the curse. Anyone who lay with her would die. Though some tried, her vacant stare and mindless prattling soon made them seek easier companions.
She often stood here watching crowds jostle around the flimsy stalls, sometimes loading their purchases onto donkeys or haggling with the stallholders for a better price. Today a group of women were berating a small child for dropping a basket of watermelons in the dust. The fruit was well past ripe, the basket too heavy for her to hold. As she stumbled, melons slid to the ground, spilling their juices and fragrances into the dust. No-one would pay money for damaged fruit.
Already cunning beggar boys were picking them up and disappearing into the maze of alleyways before anyone could stop them. Furious hands struck the child, angry voices scolding her for not holding more tightly to the basket.
The girl did not hear what the rich man said. She heard only the silence which followed. She saw silver being pressed into the young girl's hand. Then another strange thing happened. The rich man raised his head towards her, his dark brown eyes meeting her gaze. He looked tall and thin under his simple robe, only his proud bearing marking him out for who he was. Everyone knew him. Everyone deferred to his command. Everyone, except the watching girl, who knew no-one.
In two quick strides he stood before her. He placed his hand on her belly and for a moment her vacant eyes cleared. It was as if a lightning bolt struck her. She could not tell if she staggered, but suddenly she knew this man fathered her child.
When she looked up, he was gone. Her eyes scanned the crowd, suddenly catching sight of his bare head moving away through the throng of people. At the edge of the square, he turned and looked back at her, seeming to pause for a second.
There was a meaning in his gaze, saying, "Come with me, if you will, but come now."
Here are some extracts:-
The Strongest Magick
An Arthurian romance telling the story of Ygraine, priestess of Avalon & Agryffan, Prince of Orkney. The Strongest Magick celebrates the relationship between love for the Old Ways and the land of Britain when King Arthur threatens to lay waste the countryside by turning to the God of the East.
The Strongest Magick is an Arthurian novel from a different perspective. It celebrates the infinity of spirit, showing a woman's re-awakening to the possibilities of love and her own indigenous power. Ygraine's life has been full of sacrifice. She is beautiful, innocent, fragile - but mostly expendable; her task complete once she hands baby Arthur over to Merlin for safekeeping and training. Torn from the man she loves to marry another at her father's bidding, she grieves for her Sidhe lover, not realising he has already returned to her. Every woman has the essence of the Goddess inside her. When she is a trained priestess of Avalon, tied to the land of Britain by the son she bore to unite its people, how can she stand by and see the land suffer as her people turn from the Old Ways towards the new God from the East?
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-259-6
Length: 128,600 Words
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Rating: Shooting Star
$6.99
Excerpt:
Soon all was ready. Ygraine picked up a fallen branch and began to beat the rhythm of a heartbeat against an old oak. The men took their shields and beat upon them with their daggers following her rhythmic lead. This was not a call to arms, or a display of power to strike fear into the heart of an enemy, this was the call to spirit, both seen and unseen, that they might use this place for their worship.
When the rhythm was strong, she borrowed a shield and without dropping a beat, began the dance of welcome. In and out of the men she wove, bidding them follow her in the dragon dance to call up the wisdom of the earth to assist their rites. Round the grove they danced and up and down until everyone could feel their blood coursing through their veins and warmth stealing into their fingers and toes from the very earth they danced upon.
Finally, she slowed the beat and brought them back to the circle around the fire and the altar. As they stood for a moment, to get their breath, Ygraine realised Agryffan had donned his priestly headdress of deer antlers entwined with ivy. At other times he had hidden his face behind the stag, but tonight she could see his features clearly. His eyes were golden and glowing in the moonlight and the dragons on his wrists writhed about his arms. She knew there would come a time when she would be asked to bear the dragons for him and she wondered if they would find her worthy after such a long absence.
The glade breathed in the silence, shadows beginning to form beneath the trees. Ygraine could feel their interest as they touched the minds of each person, seeking to know purpose and intent at this time of power. Ygraine took the cup and filled it with clear water, turning to the four directions and honouring the world above and below before offering libation to the earth. Then she knelt before Agryffan, waiting for him to charge it with his dagger, acutely aware of his moment of thrust as if he had struck the blade through her instead of the water. Together they shared the first sip. The strength of the liquid took her breath away. She would have dropped the cup if Agryffan had not steadied her.
"Breathe," he whispered. "It has been too long since you drew power unto yourself and your body has become unused to its strength. Breathe in the night and let our Mother give you strength for what must be done."
Ygraine did as he said and soon the dizziness lifted. She was able to take the cup to the men around the circle so that they too might share in its life-giving force. When this was done, Agryffan took the cup and shared it with Bronwyn and Sianna, hailing the three of them as the manifestation of the triple Goddess, maiden, mother and crone. Ygraine thought he would place the ivy circlet on Sianna's head, for the Maiden ruled this time of the year, but he drew her to him and took out all the braids from her hair, using his long fingers as a comb until it hung free like any maiden's on her wedding night.
"Now is the time outside of time." he said to her, "Gone are the times before and the times to come. As the earth renews Herself each year with the rising of the sap and the wakening of the seeds from their sleep in the rich soil, so too do I call you to awaken, Spring Maiden! Feel within your blood the life force return. Draw down from the moon the power of the Goddess herself to bring you new life, new love, new heart."
Tenderly he placed the circlet of woven ivy upon Ygraine's head and she raised her arms to invoke the power of the full moon. Like a sudden shower, the power began to flood into her. All she could do was close her eyes and accept what was given. She could feel the transformation around her and knew that when she opened her eyes the whole world would be different. She heard the trees begin to groan, as if wakened from their winter sleep too soon. Birds began to sing amongst the branches and into her nostrils came the sweetest scent of apple blossom she had smelt since leaving Avalon so many years before.
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Ygraine opened her eyes and was greeted with the sight of a glade transformed. All around, trees were in new washed leaf and blossom hung from the many ancient wild apple trees bordering the glade. The moon turned from her silver radiance to the golden light of day so everything shone and sparkled. Beyond the circle she could see rabbits feeding in the short grass and deer cropped leaves of low hanging branches. A lone hare hopped into the circle and sat, twitching her nose at those within for several breathtaking moments before ambling away to the security of the bushes. Both fox and badger stood and watched as they made their way along ancient unseen tracks. They took no notice of the other animals, as if their Lord were nearby and all creatures were at peace in His presence.
At Home And Away
Many people record images of their home and holidays with still or moving pictures. Between the covers of this book lie two collections of images captured in words so readers can paint their own picture of the scene. A Natural Year reflects the ever-changing, unchanging cycles of archetypal English countryside as experienced in the herb gardens in Warwickshire and the Cotswolds, where land has been cultivated since Neolithic times. Memories of Cornwall takes you to the ancient coastline of Cornwall over many summer holidays. You can play with children on the beach, watch the moon rise over the English Channel, or visit the many sacred sites within the county.
Whether listening for the sound of bees, smelling primroses or tasting snowballs, allow yourself to be transported to another place where Nature will hold you and nurture an inner peace.
Excerpt
Lament for Winter
Where is the snow?
In this dark time, earth sleeps
Ploughed furrows wait for frost
Seeds hide deep
Thick coats longing for scarification
Black clouds hover overhead
Brooding, resentful
Firing raindrops in sullen, pounding waves
Drenching an over-watered land
Where man-made lights stay lit throughout the day
No bright noon-times
No golden-dawned sun dazzling ice-sculptured
windows
No chilled gasps of freezing air
No clouds of steam from feeding herds
No ice-covered troughs
No skating on frozen ponds
No toboggan rides down slopes
No snowmen with coal-black eyes and orange noses
No snowballs to throw or taste
No orange globes set fire to evening skies
No joy, no laughter, no fun!
Just damp, mud, rain
Not cold, not warm
Just soggy leaves from trees who seem unsure about sleeping
It is the time of dark, of rest
It rains.
Insect Song
There are spiders on the curtains
There are earwigs on the light
There are lacewings on the windows
When all is dark at night
There are ants on all the circle stones
Chasing us away
They only fly but once a year
Why should it be today?
There are bees upon the heather
Butterflies on the gorse
Damsel flies, green and turquoise,
Glitter along the course
Why are dragonflies so enormous?
Why does honey come from bees?
Why do flies drown in my teacup?
What do insects mean to me?
Bees and butterflies suck the pollen
Ants and beetles prey on leaves
Sandhoppers dance on seaweed
And they sometimes dance on me!
So many shapes and sizes
Different colours, different hues
At least there are no scorpions
Hiding in my shoes!
FREE READS
Going for a drink
A true tale from Community Health Council Days - who supports the supporters?
Healing across time
Past life regression has unexpected consequences...
Excerpt:
As the sun began its downward path, she stopped; searching for food in her pack. Dried meat and bread took time to chew, but they stopped the pangs in her belly until it was time to sleep. She rested against a low rock, watching clouds chase each other above other mountain peaks. A sudden flicker of movement caught her attention. When she turned, a man sat watching her on the other side of the trail.
"Where has he come from?" Claire wondered. The man sat, his arms relaxed against his sides, showing he meant no harm. His face bore marks of deep weathering from many seasons.
"He's not from my people." The men of her tribe kept their faces shaved, but this man's beard was flecked with grey, his hair hanging loose past his shoulders. His clothes seemed familiar, but his deerskin was dyed green and underneath she could see a cloth shirt nestling against his skin. His eyes were shaded by the broad brimmed hat he wore. She knew enough of strangers not to seek his gaze, lest it give him power over her before she set her own protection.
"Why is he here?" She made no move to greet him, trying to make some sense of his presence. "Am I not to travel alone?" she wondered. "Have the Old Ones sent me a companion, or is this just another test I must endure?
His tangled web
Internet friendships can become complicated when you don't tell the truth
Excerpt:
He expected me in velvet.
"I always see you in velvet" he said, when I admitted velvet skirts were my favourite clothes for relaxation. A style left over from the swinging sixties. A time of love, peace and goodwill to all men. A time I wanted to be part of, but missed by several years, hating the torn t-shirts, safety pins and spiked hair of the punks who coloured my adolescence.
I wanted to float, to dream, to spend time doing nothing except watch the sunrise and sunset and the glories which fall between.
Life isn't like that. When you finish feeding your mind with facts other people want you to know, there is work and work and more work. If you're lucky and find the right person, there is love and play and homes and children and joy and cares and tears and laughter.
I used to watch them. The mothers walking their children to school - clean clothes, neat hair, book bags dangling by their sides. Skipping along holding hands, with the light of enthusiasm still bright in their eyes. I watched them grow older as they changed schools. Boys with shirts hanging over their trousers, ties askew, girls in tight, short skirts and no coats no matter how cold the weather.
It didn't happen like that for me. There was never the right time, the right place, the right job. I thought there was the right man, but he was taken when I met him, bound up in commitments to wife, mortgage, children. There was passion, but he offered no promises, suggesting future opportunities, but the future has a habit of disappearing, subsumed by the present, making me realise the futility of allowing my future to be fashioned from the crumbs of another's possibilities. After fifteen years, I said farewell, taking my leave, determined to find a sunset of my own choosing.
I was growing old. The endless chatter of students brushing past me as I took my lunchtime walk in the park annoyed me. They spilled out over footpaths like a mindless sea, brushing aside anyone or anything in their way. I was invisible. The middle aged woman in the long green coat, merging with the hawthorn hedge or disappearing into the yew grove when no-one was looking.
"Will you come and hear me sing?"
The question surprised me. He lived so far away, why would he want me to come and listen to his songs? It wasn't as if we were real, we'd only been talking over the internet for a short time. It felt like a short time. Late at night in the darkness of winter when spring was still a glimmer of hope suggested by violets we came across one another. An evening of laughter. He made me smile. I appreciated the quick wit and banter, but did not expect to talk to him again.
I was wrong.
We found so many things to talk about. Music, books, work, play – the list was endless and immaterial. We talked. We shared experiences, hopes, the small minutiae of our daily lives. I learned the names of his colleagues and cousins, heard about their children, lives and events. I shared the pressures of my daily life,frustrations with my clients, the uncertainties of my job.
Somehow it made it easier having someone else to tell. He became my sounding board for new ideas, a sponge absorbing my emotions, helping me back towards a sense of balance. He was my friend.
We joked about meeting one day, about visiting art galleries in our wheelchairs, chaperoned by uniformed attendants who would push us where we wanted to go. I knew it wouldn't happen. He was too far away. There was no reason to spend so much money on just a trip.
I knew he would never visit me. Things were so different for him. It was as much as he could do to earn enough to keep himself and his son. His ex-wife had a drink problem and didn't work so he gave her money to keep her from losing a roof over her head. He blamed himself for what she had become, no matter how much I tried to show him it wasn't his fault, that we all choose our own path and walk it alone.
So how did I come to be standing here, outside the bar where I knew he was singing tonight?
Tears in a Dry Land - WARNING Chapters 6 and 8 contain adult content.
A romance from the shores of an ancient Mediterranean
Excerpt:
The girl stood in the shadow of the mud house to watch the rich man's progress through the market place. Her ragged dress could not hide the thickening of her waist. Her head was covered with a heavy veil to keep out dust swirling around on the hot wind from the desert.
Sometimes, men -- strangers to this place - thought her condition made her an easy target for their desires, but others would soon warn them about the curse. Anyone who lay with her would die. Though some tried, her vacant stare and mindless prattling soon made them seek easier companions.
She often stood here watching crowds jostle around the flimsy stalls, sometimes loading their purchases onto donkeys or haggling with the stallholders for a better price. Today a group of women were berating a small child for dropping a basket of watermelons in the dust. The fruit was well past ripe, the basket too heavy for her to hold. As she stumbled, melons slid to the ground, spilling their juices and fragrances into the dust. No-one would pay money for damaged fruit.
Already cunning beggar boys were picking them up and disappearing into the maze of alleyways before anyone could stop them. Furious hands struck the child, angry voices scolding her for not holding more tightly to the basket.
The girl did not hear what the rich man said. She heard only the silence which followed. She saw silver being pressed into the young girl's hand. Then another strange thing happened. The rich man raised his head towards her, his dark brown eyes meeting her gaze. He looked tall and thin under his simple robe, only his proud bearing marking him out for who he was. Everyone knew him. Everyone deferred to his command. Everyone, except the watching girl, who knew no-one.
In two quick strides he stood before her. He placed his hand on her belly and for a moment her vacant eyes cleared. It was as if a lightning bolt struck her. She could not tell if she staggered, but suddenly she knew this man fathered her child.
When she looked up, he was gone. Her eyes scanned the crowd, suddenly catching sight of his bare head moving away through the throng of people. At the edge of the square, he turned and looked back at her, seeming to pause for a second.
There was a meaning in his gaze, saying, "Come with me, if you will, but come now."
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