Cheers...

As I mentioned in my grumblings a couple of days ago, my little writing group is back on track with its weekly flash fiction, after a break caused by a sudden proliferation of holidays and house moves. I'm relieved to report that I have written something; I know it's hardly an original subject or breath-takingly graceful writing, but at least it's a story wot I made up from my head. So here goes. (The theme, by the way, was obsession.)

Come on, Simon, don’t look so sad. It’ll be ok. The drinks are nearly ready.
Remember, ever since we’ve been little, we’ve been the same person. Even to Mum. It was never Simon and Stuart; always The Twins. The Boys. You can’t just break up something like that. I won’t let you. What is it with this Catherine, anyway? She’ll never understand you, not like I do. She wants to take you away from me, from everything, and turn you into something you’re not. We can’t live that life, with babies and dogs and Sundays in B&Q. We have to stay together.
What? No, not yet; I can’t untie you yet. You’ll run away, to her, won’t you? Here. It’s ready; let me hold the straw for you. Look; I’m drinking too. Bitter, isn’t it? Come on, swallow. Not long now, Simon. Sleepy? Me, too. Good. Relax. Soon we'll be The Boys again.

Rhubarb waffle

No, not an interesting new dessert (though a rhubarb waffle does sound tasty) - this is more of a concerned outpouring. My brain is empty. I daresay that the more perceptive among you have already discerned that fact, but at the moment it seems more than usually bleak and echoey. All the shadowy characters, half-glimpsed scenes and snapshots of stories appear to have wandered off, beyond my recall. I know it's almost a writer's duty to whinge about not being able to write, so I won't harp on too much. Indeed, this has happened to me before, but somehow everything comes back when it's ready to and I can write again, but each time there is the nagging fear...what if it's permanent this time?
I can't think about that possibility too much, for fear of descending into a fit of hysterics. There's a flash fiction to be written by Saturday, so maybe cudgelling my brains over that will help to 'restore my natural rhythm', as the constipation adverts say.
In the meantime, I intend to scoot back to my old house to see if I inadvertently left my imagination in the cupboard under the stairs.

Quietly encouraged

Here I am in my nice new home, complete with a set of all-over bruises and a suspected cardboard rash. When I eventually unearthed the computer and smiled beseechingly at my other half until he set it up, I found a paradox in my inbox.
It was a good rejection. The editor concerned said he greatly enjoyed my story, but hadn't been able to fit it into the current issue of his magazine. He did, however, say that I was welcome to re-submit it for another edition. Yes, I know it's still a rejection, but it is a far easier one to take than the cold, detached form letters favoured by most publishers. I take this as rare but conclusive proof that not all editors are heartless swines, and feel a good deal chirpier about the whole writing business for it.

Upping sticks

This is just to let you know, dear reader, that I won't be doing any angsting for a few days. (Ok, ok, there's no need to cheer quite so loudly.) We're moving into a brand spanking new house this week, so I'll have neither the time nor the internet capability to go blethering on in my usual fashion.
I must say, though, that apart from the hair-tearing stress levels and the sudden ubiquity of brown tape and cardboard boxes, moving is a wonderful thing. It provides a perfect excuse for not doing any writing.

Hurrah for Magnetic Poetry!

Here's a little cat-inspired haiku I created with my magnetic poetry kit. This may seem like a contradiction of the title of my last post, but

a) the haiku was also created a while ago, and

b) I didn't write it. I merely dragged words around with an expression of childish glee. If that's not sufficient vindication, then

c) I have a new phone, and am duty bound to play with the camera thingy. So ner.

I can't write any new poems, so here's an old one

What the Cow Thought About the Rain


Sun’s gone; rain is falling
on all of us out in the field.
The rest are lying down already,
but my forecast system failed,
thought the cow.

Best seek out some shelter:
I’m in no mood for getting wet.
I’ll find some peace beneath this tree
and daydream while I wait,
thought the cow.

Swelling, dancing raindrops
are bouncing off each leaf;
familiar as a heartbeat
at the centre of my life,
thought the cow.

Rain patters like Dewdrop’s baby
hoofs on the dirt path to our shed -
now, in her place, trot memories
of those happy weeks we shared,
thought the cow.

In dreams I hear her call
for me, in infant need of love
and care. I know they took her from me;
I pray they let her live,
thought the cow.

I moan in tender agony at thoughts
of Dewdrop’s tiny waggling ears;
her tail-twitch as she nuzzled
me; the liquid beauty of her eyes,
thought the cow.

Now all I have is tugging weight
of milk I make in faith for her.
This dragging in my stomach just
reminds me she’s not here,
thought the cow.

Relief each morning turns to grief
as I recall who takes the milk,
and that cold squirting metal
noise is the same as raindrops make,
thought the cow.

Birthday musings

I woke on Saturday morning(ish) to discover that I was suddenly a year older. I wasn't consulted on this - I received no Windows-esque pop-ups asking if I wanted to add the extra year to my age now, or to re-boot and add it later. It's all rather rude, if you ask me.
Despite this unrequested age increment, I had a jolly good day. An 8-hour round trip to London might not be everyone's idea of a birthday lark, but there is something about mindlessly sitting there and watching the miles tick by that soothes my mind. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment, reckless jaunt, by the way - we were off to see Prince. I couldn't honestly say that he's my absolute favourite artist, but it's mildly amusing to listen to the little pipsqueak banging on about how wonderful he is. Even better, I had the good fortune to be seated next to a madwoman. She danced like she was on the receiving end of some very high voltage, and was prepared to elbow anyone who got in her way. I began to feel that, even though I may be getting older, at least I am having a stab at maintaining some sort of dignity.
Now, if you'll excuse me, the fire brigade are at the door. Something about a cake fire raging out of control...