There Will Be Turkey!


I worked late last night  - Christmas overtime. It seemed a great idea in theory. Hell knows I need the cash. I mean I haven't even began my Christmas shopping apart from some chocolate coins and an advent calendar. Oh yeah, I forgot about the disposable Christmas  table cover from Lidl. Fancy. Only the best for my family! no holds barred.
Anyway back to the overtime. I work in the Mail Centre in Portlaoise. It's hard, it's dusty, dirty and at times goddamn soul destroying for a sensitive soul like myself. But the money is good and the evening hours meant that I could have the days with my children rather than stick them in childcare.
I recently applied for job share and this means that I only do half the hours so I have a nice bit of time at home with the kids and my husband sitting by the fire, drinking wine occasionally (who am I kidding with the occasionally shit?). I get to watch crap like I'm a Celebrity (guilty pleasure) read, and do some decent writing. It's great except for the only getting half the wages part! So crazy woman went and put herself down for lots and lots of late overtime and is now regretting it big time. But needs must. We shan't starve, there will be turkey! But .....Nightmare!!!
So I am going around like a zombie, my back is killing me and I've nearly got through a tube of Voltarol (rubbing it on rather than consuming it) and I've only done one bloody night.
Mind over matter, I will be strong; I will survive this. Though I may have to self medicate.

This is a short story that I wrote as an exercise in editing and using various writing techniques i.e portraying the story through scene, dialogue and action. It was written in a day and I edited the hell out of it. I had to bring it down from over 2,000 words to 1,000 which was a job and a half, meaning that I had to cut out pieces that I personally liked but weren't entirely necessary. A very useful exercise and cathartic. 

Here's the finished product. I hope you like it.

A Table By The Window

If I hadn’t arrived early I wouldn’t have got the table. I wanted the table by the window, it gave me advance warning. But, like me he arrived early. I had hardly taken off my coat when I spotted him striding past the window, his iPhone stuck to his ear, a frown on his face. Two minutes later he stood in front of me.

“Hello Jeanie”.

 Nobody else called me Jeanie. He made my name sound so much more exotic than flat one- syllabled Jean. That syrupy Italian accent that turned the most banal of everyday words –dustbin, tomato, toilet paper, into poetry. It was a formidable weapon.

“Luca” I nodded. I could be civilised.

He hung his jacket across the back of the chair and placed his hands across the table palms down. He leaned forward so that our faces were nearly touching and I was inhaling his Acqua di Parma.

  “You want coffee? Latte, Mocha?”

“Yes, please. I’ll have a latte”

“Something to eat? A sandwich or a pastry?”

“No thanks. Just the coffee”

He pivoted and approached the counter. I watched him gesticulating as he ordered, conjuring words in the air. A tattoo peeped from under the right sleeve of his polo shirt. A rose. I closed my eyes and imagined its thorny progress as it travelled up his bicep to meet the bird of paradise on his shoulder. “Jeanie” appeared on his left shoulder above “Mama” and the Hands of God.

I wondered if he would now cover it with another’s name or perhaps a portrait of the Pope. When I re-opened them he was standing at the table watching me quizzically. He had bought coffee and a plate of pastries. Typical Luca, he didn’t like to eat alone.  It was an Italian thing.  He placed the pastries in the centre of the table and handed the coffee over, before pulling his chair in tight to the table. He started picking at a pastry with his fingers before popping a piece into his mouth.

“So how are you?” his tone was polite.

 We hadn’t seen each other since he’d moved out. A week ago (seven days, six hours and counting).

“I’ m good” I said fiddling with an earring. Even though, I was anything but. I forced my hands into my lap under the table where they fought each other like little silent dogs.

“You’re looking well”

And I was suddenly and stupidly pleased with the compliment.  I had deliberately dressed down, jeans and boots with a baggy jumper. A lick of mascara, some lippy. Okay I’d had my hair done but it looked the right type of tousled, as if I’d just got out of bed but with really good hair.

“Thanks” I smiled and took a sip of the coffee. “How are things in the restaurant?” We were grown ups, we could be civilised.

“Really good, thank you, lots of covers, busy, you know?”

 He was practically beaming, his enthusiasm nearly contagious. Nearly but not quite. Busy was one of our problems. Busy was a deal breaker.

“And your folks?” I liked his parents. They were good people.

“They miss you” He concentrated on his pastry.

“I miss them too”. I miss you more; the words were unspoken across the table top.

And that was the moment right there.

In a movie the camera would pan around the table, the lights receding to a single spot above us, an indie track would start to filter in slowly.

“How’s James?” And like that he ruined it.

Luca!” I groaned. “I told you I haven’t seen him since the party”

I pushed the coffee away from me and glared at him. Jesus!

“I saw you kissing another man! Did you expect me to just forget? I can’t” He was shouting. The couple at the next table stopped their conversation to listen into ours. He lowered his voice and shook his head in disbelief.

“You know what happened. I’ve told you a million times. Why can’t you just believe me?”

“I believe what I saw” he had that look on his face; full of self righteousness.

“What you saw was me saying goodnight to an old friend, a drunken peck on the lips. Nothing more”

“That’s not what it looked like to me!”

“If you’d been there at the bloody party it wouldn’t have happened”

“Okay…I get it. It’s all my fault” he laughed sarcastically.

“It was my 30^th Birthday Party, Luca! Everyone was there except for you. How do you think I felt?”

“I told you I was held up, I was really...

“Busy?” I spat out the word.

He looked away from me. His phone rang.

“Don’t answer that” Our eyes met. The phone continued to ring in his pocket.

He cursed, pulled it out and answered.

I grabbed my bag and stood up.

He held a hand up. “Wait” he mouthed.

“There’s just no point”.

I grabbed my coat and walked out.

I was half way down the street when the rain started. Great. I pulled my coat around me and searched in vain for a taxi. I was just turning the corner in the direction of the Tube station when I heard footsteps behind me. He was running hard. .

“It’s ok.” He grabbed my arm. “It’s ok”

The phone rang again. I glared at him. He answered, grabbing my hand tightly as I wriggled to get away.

“Listen, I’m not coming in tonight or tomorrow. That’s right. Ok. Ring you later”. He winked at my shocked expression and hung up.

“Is it ok?” he held both my hands captive. I thought for a moment.

“Say my name” I looked up at him, flicking the wet fringe out of my eyes.

“What?” he looked confused.

“Jeanie” It rolled off his tongue, deliciously.

I closed my eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about”

“Ho mangiato la vostra pasticceria”

“What?” I leaned closer.

“I ate your pastry”

I punched him on the arm.

Away with the faeries

Cousin Seth had always lived on his own. It was his way.

“Some people need folks”,  he would say” and some don’t , that’s just the way of it”. Then he would stuff his pipe with old Boulder with the back of a spoon as was his habit, stoop to pick a taper from the pot on the grate and touching it to the fire before lighting the clay pipe. He would pause and take a puff and the billowing smoke billowed out enveloping  the one roomed dwelling place in an ashy fog, filling each and every surface until the only bright light came from the gnarled oak roots burning in the fireplace, their flames like cherry coloured paper licking the shroud of pipe smoke.

And it was hard to imagine him in a scene of domesticity, with a wife and family, strapped into a collar and waistcoat with a bright pocket watch hanging from a golden chain.

“What need I a wife? The woods are my only love, the animals of the forest my children” and indeed he was as suited to his ramshackle abode at the edge of  the Ragged  Wood as the hazels and alder that grew up against his walls, providing shelter and rendering the structure impossible to see from the eyes of passersby. Only the plume of smoke emerging from the single chimney gave way his position in the wood and that only by intention. Manys the dark, wintery night when no fire was lit to keep the fingers of darkness from his window or give protection against the cold.

Seth was a man of unnatural height. Taller than any in the village. He walked with a bend in his back with gave him the air of being shorter though it was probably an affectation so as not to draw attention to his long limbs and elongated neck. His hair was kept long as was the tradition of the men at that time but he did not tie it back with ribbons or leather as was the preferred way of wearing it. It flowed long and wild, grey as a badger. Never combed and often filled with bits of leaves and old seeds from his long forages. I once saw him pull a beetle from the confines of his mane, its tiny legs seeking purchase in the thick nest of his hair.

 I watched in interest as he stroked the tiny beetles back with a bony finger, the nail of which was rimmed with earth and ragged. and he placed the beetle in a glass jar upon the table where it attempted to climb the slippery walls only to fall on its back again and again.

“Cousin Seth”  I asked as I sat at the table drinking homemade cider out of a wooden vessel..

“Aye” he fixed his dark eyes upon me.

“What are you planning to do with that there beetle?”

He wiped his dirty fingers on the bib of his tattered shirt.

“Well, Cousin Bill, I plan on eating him for my tea “ he picked up the jar and stared at the beetle, causing it to slide back down to the bottom.

“Ain't much eating in a beetle “ I said watching his face closely. People were always tricking on me and I had to be on my watch.

He laughed suddenly. A joyful happy sound, and the room seemed suddenly filled with the light of the late Autumn sun. I joined him.

“I guess your’e right there” he said and he unscrewed the lid and set it on its side. We watched the black beetle crawl quickly along the glass and up over the lip of the jar to drop to the earthen floor. It quickly escaped under the table.

He looked at me over the scarred, rough oak table.

“Sometimes I just like to look at the little creatures. They give me comfort”.

Character Sketch

I had to write a character sketch to be reviewed by my fellow Creative Writing group on Futurelearn. It was quite an easy one for me. I just watched my husband sitting at the table and embellished here and there. The latter part was pure fabrication, sorry Dehon, it's not really you, you just gave me a few ideas. :)


Character Sketch

He sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee at his elbow, the paper spread out before him as he scanned the day’s news, his dark eyes squinting beneath heavy eyebrows. He licked the tip of a calloused finger and turned the  page over whilst scratching at the dark growth on his face. He was trying to grow a beard but it came on awkwardly, hugging the underside of his chin, proceeding down his neck like a dark fungus against his sallow skin. A moustache sat sparsely upon his thin upper lip, dark and wiry like the bristles on a wild pig.

When people remarked on his changed appearance he would remark “It’s for charity” but he didn’t give to Cancer Research. The mere sight of someone collecting caused him to quicken his step or cross the street. He packed his own bags at the supermarket checkout.

 A large man, six foot two in his stocking feet, he carried a little extra weight across the middle due to a fondness for porter and warm cans of ale swallowed quickly with friends outdoors in the turf shed as they discussed the weather and the next day’s birds.

He dressed in the hidden colours of winter; olives, dark greens and browns, real tree camouflage. He was a shooter, a hunter of pheasant, duck and every wild thing. He walked the length and breadth of the county leaving no hedge or copse un-plundered, his spaniel dancing in and out of the frosted fields, nose twitching, at the ready.

He wasn’t a family man. His proudest possession was not the bright smiling faces of his children, the achievement of their small hopes and dreams but the Webley and Scott 700 shotgun he kept locked in the gun cabinet at the back of his wardrobe.

Everyone Likes an Unexpected Surprise

Here is a piece that I had to complete as part of my Creative Writing course. It is complete as a five hundred word piece or I could make it into a longer story. Enjoy.

“Everyone Likes an Unexpected Surprise”

Jake turned the shower to full power. The cubicle filled with steam and he closed his eyes as hot needles pummelled his back and legs. Drop by tingling drop he felt his body slowly coming back to life.

Stepping out of the bathroom he half tripped over his rucksack, lying against the radiator where he had flung it somewhere between locking the front door and collapsing into bed.

The long flight back to England had been a blur. A bad flyer, he had taken valium upon boarding and a couple of beers to chase it. Dreamless sleep had been swift.  He awoke in surprise to a gentle nudge. The elderly woman beside him was asking him politely in heavily accented English if  he could move his legs so that she and her husband could get out. The plane, he realised had landed and was rapidly emptying. He apologised and stood up.

Descending the steps off the plane at Heathrow, he held the narrow rail to steady himself.  

Back at his flat, disorientation and exhaustion took it in turns to welcome him back. The sounds and smells of the city seemed alien to him, he had exchanged the bright sun of Santiago for the gun metal grey of London.  He had been gone two months but it may have been years.

And now even after twelve hours sleep it seemed his jet lag wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He swallowed two aspirin and a mug of double strength instant coffee, burning the roof of his mouth in the process, he thought about returning to bed.

Jake scratched his head absently. He had begun to feel rather itchy since the shower. The water had been too hot, to the point of scalding. But it felt good in the steamy cubicle, closed off, womb like. He hadn’t wanted to leave.

Perhaps he had burned his scalp? Or maybe it was the shampoo? He wondered if shampoo ever went off.

It was an unsettling feeling -  the itchiness, as if he wasn’t connected with his body. A stranger in his own skin.

Jake scratched again and that’s when he felt it. A lump behind his right ear.

What the….? That definitely hadn’t been there this morning. It hadn’t been there in the shower, he would have noticed.

It was a small nodule like protuberance, about the size of a child’s cardigan button.

He lifted his damp, shoulder length  hair aside with his hand and attempted to capture an image with his iPhone. It was no good, the area behind his ear just appeared blotchy.  Dragging the hall mirror into the bathroom he managed to catch a proper glimpse of the thing.

It was larger than he thought.

Jake squinted into the bathroom mirror to get a clearer view of the back of his head in the glass behind him. In the mirror he watched as his right hand came up sneakily and rubbed the strange lump.

It moved.

Spaces

I wrote these two conflicting paragraphs to show the difference between writing spaces. Every writer has their favourite place, hideaway. Somewhere where they can be at peace and just get it all down on the laptop, or like me on the humble notebook (Easons is my favourite haunt).
What could suit one individual could drive another crazy.

Hope you like the paragraphs below.

"Mum. Muuum!" Another call from the kitchen.
She tried to ignore the shout, thinking if there's really something wrong they'll come looking for me.
Still, her little moment of peace had evaporated like steam through an open window.
Frowning she glanced back down at the notebook on her lap and the two lines that mocked her.
She viciously scribbled them out. Then after a moment ripped out the page, crumbled it into a ball and tossed it over the couch.




The rain rattled the sides of the glasshouse and John raised his head from his work.
The desk in front of him was an old planter's table, still decorated with leavings of the spring potting, compost dry and dusty.
And much as the wind howled and wailed about the building he felt as safe and warm as if inside the belly of a whale, his own private space.
"Enter at your peril, writer at work" read the sign on the door and no one did, enter that is, with the exception of Sixpence the terrier who lay asleep on an old sack oblivious to his master's genius and the storm outside.

Different Perspectives - beginnings of a story

Here are a few little snippits and pieces that I did recently for my Creative Writing course with FutureLearn (Open University)

Enjoy! :)

02 NOV

She was an attractive woman. Early forties, her hair; blonde with subtle highlights looked recently groomed and was tied with a clip so that only a few honeyed tendrils escaped to frame her angular face. She had kept the model looks of her twenties although there were many tiny wrinkles around her eyes and black circles lurked behind the carefully applied foundation. I watched her from a half hidden booth on the far side of the booth. I didn't want to reveal myself until I had to. I wanted to see her, drink her in for a moment. She was a shrewd observer and would notice the tracks that time had made upon me. Age had barely touched her, no doubt kept at an expensive arms length by the many surgeries she had denied having in the past. She was wealthy, married three times. No children, she wouldn't have wanted them. A life dedicated to self.

I watched her pull out a tablet from the leather satchel on the table beside her. It looked top of the range. She tapped the screen with perfectly manicured fingers. Amid the loud music and semi clad gyrating women half her age, she stood out as a beacon of calm and good sense. This was of course, misleading. Behind the perfectly coiffured hair and understated expensive jewelry lurked an angry soul. One so filled with despair and self destruction who had sent three ambitious and ruthless men to early graves. 

I had known her before. We were sides of the same coin.

Below is a paragraph written from the point of view of the female character. Interesting how it changes the tone of the piece.

Lois got out of the taxi cab as if alighting from a limo, fluidly. She slipped the driver a fifty. "I shouldn't be more than a half an hour, will that do?" He nodded and settled back in his seat. Fixing her satchel across her shoulder she made her way directly to "The Blue Piano Bar". The thump of the bass flooded out onto the street as she pulled open the door. 

Perfect, she thought to herself as she weaved between the scantily clad dancers to get to the bar. She selected a stool at the centre of the bar, seated herself and on catching the bartender's eye ordered a vodka tonic. 

She sat perfectly still, she wouldn't let him know that she'd noticed him the minute she crossed the dance floor, hunched in one of the darkened booths against the wall. 

As if I wouldn't recognise him! the corner of her mouth curled up. 

He's older, that's for sure and the years haven't been kind to him, but I'd know him anywhere. 

She sipped her drink and played with her iPad. Let him make the first move, she decided. 

I can wait. I've been waiting a long time.

I will make a short story with both these characters and post later, looking forward to seeing what shall emerge..

Welcome October

Welcome October!

And so September is gone. Good riddance I say. The whole depressing back to school thing, the goodbye to summer and all we associate with it; namely heat, painted toe nails and sand in our hair. It was a month of organising things; uniforms and books, school runs and lunches. September was a struggle.
October rolls in effortlessly, with her mild breezy days, there is a chill in the evening to be sure but we’re ready, we’ve had our fill of barbeques and sleepless heatfilled nights, we welcome snuggling up on the couch beside the fire, positively relish the warmth of the extra duvet on the bed. Toasty.
 And October is beautiful. Oh the colours; ochre, flame red, yellow. The after apple pie Sunday walks in the woods, leaves crunching underfoot. Having to add a layer but not the hat and scarf yet. The clear crystal bright sunlight that cuts into every corner, showing up my filthy windows and numerous cobwebs.
 I love October.
 My apple trees are overburdened with fruit that I give to friends and family, big lusty green apples that make the best pies and crumbles. They grow in clusters of three or four, the satisfying snap when I twist them off the tree. There are sloes ripening on the bushes waiting to be collected for the Christmas gin.
 And Hallowe’en is but. 30 days away. Most treasured feast, already I am lifting pumpkins in supermarkets holding their reassuring weight in my hands, longing to scoop out and carve their orange skins. The evening air is heavy with the scent of bonfire and I place thick dry turf on the open fire. Welcome October with all the beauty and joy that you bring. An autumnal jewel of a month.

A Night For The Fire

It’s  not a night for a walk, or late night shopping. Or visiting friends or family. It’s a night for being antisocial. Antisocial with a glass of wine, or a can of beer or whatever you have in the fridge or rack. Antisocial by the fire with your favourite tipple and that book you haven’t had a chance to read, you know the one that has been catching your eye for days?
Forget about Facebook for a night, it’s not going anywhere. The same cute pictures of cats and dogs and dancing lambs will be there to greet you tomorrow. No one will take it badly if you don’t like the photo of their kid dressed as one of the Walking Dead within the first hour of it being posted.
Sit yourself down there on the couch, kick off the miscellaneous toys, secondary school books, dog toys and that odd sock that has appeared out of nowhere.
And read your book. Just block everything out and read. Forget about the ESB bill that’s overdue, the washing sitting in the machine that you should really take out in case it smells, forget about the rain that’s washing down the windows in rivulets and the wind that’s getting up.
Watch the fire, really watch the fire. Have you ever noticed how many colours you can see? Those reds, oranges and yellow, the turf smoldering away.  It’s mesmerising isn’t it? And in watching and staring at the flames as they rise and fall casting shadows across the hearth you will find a peace in yourself. Peace to be yourself.
Sit back and enjoy. You deserve it