Thanks to Jane Heinrichs (janeheinrichs.blogspot.co.uk) for inspiring me to think about this and for having the idea for a 'one picture, three stories' link up on her blog (see her blogpost about it here and take a look around the rest of her site, I guarantee you that you'll find something to encourage/dazzle/motivate/inspire you).
Here is my picture, and the three stories that it sparks off:
1) Childhood - that time of long hot summers, wonder, exploration and adventure, when everything is new and exciting. This is my niece. I don't see her as much as I would like as we live in Dorset and she lives in Oxfordshire so every moment I have with her is magic. This was taken last year when she and her dad (my brother) came to stay for a few days. She is standing on the walls of our town surveying the world below her and engaging in some impromptu ballet! If any child captures the sense of joy and excitement of being a child throwing herself at the world in joyful and trusting abandonment, it is my niece. She fills my heart with joy and also a wistful longing to remember the experiences and feelings of being that young, that small and that sure of yourself.
2) Hope - The pure joy and hope of being alive is, for me, captured here. The sunny day, the warm breeze, the beauty of life and the promise of a future yet to unfold. A grown up shadow falls across her, every so slightly touching her - the reassurance of security, the suggestion of the life she will lead and the woman she will grow into.
3)The Circle of Life - my niece looks extraordinarily like I did when I was her age. She brings back vivid memories of when I was her age exploring the countryside around our home. She reminds me what it is to explore as a child - something so necessary for someone who writes for children. Sweet, vulnerable, stubborn, strong, excited and overwhelmed, I can see the influences of my brother, of me, of my mother, of our family shining out of her, even (maybe mostly) when she's sulking, having a tantrum and trying to make sense of this sometimes unfathomable world she's learning to navigate. She seems to be a part of me, and I a part of her.
I highly recommend that you browse through your pictures and see which ones prompt three stories from you, and then link it back to Jane's blog and explore what other people have posted. Candy Gourlay's post is fascinating!
happy story making!
Rosie
Monday, 17 February 2014
Monday, 10 February 2014
River Girl
I wrote this beginning years and years ago and have never taken it any further than what is here. I re-read it every now and then, hoping that the rest of the story will emerge. So far, no luck. But one day, I'm sure. Michael and the River Girl will come back and tell me what happens next...
River Girl
Late. It was too
late. The air was thick with starlight. The
wind, blowing up from the river, carried the scent of silt and sleeping
creatures.
What was it
doing? A human boy sitting alone on the shore. Chin resting on his knees. Lips
turned downwards. Eyes glazed.
The river girl
shifted position, bending the bulrushes away gently, creeping catlike over the
marshy ground. Her bare feet slurped in the weed-tangled water.
It was a young
boy too. Younger than those that came out on warm summer evenings drinking from
cans and yelling and throwing darts of smoking red into the river where they
died with a hiss.
Late. Too late
for a human boy to be sitting on the bank.
The river girl
hunched down, squatting amongst the long grass and rushes. Night would grow colder, prowlers would come. Dark prowlers.
The river girl
twisted as she heard a noise on the opposite bank. Her long ears twitched,
swivelling slightly to catch the sound. An otter maybe, night fishing, or a
fish trying to reach the stars. They longed to fly. They jumped for the stars
at night.
Turning her
attention back to the human boy, the river girl made her decision. Tonight was
not a good night to be on the bank alone. She crept forward softly, she was the
whispering of the wind through the grass, the sound of breezes snagging against
the bristled heads of the bulrushes. The human boy was an arm span away.
Sitting on the bank. His shoes shone in the moonlight. Wind ruffled his hair
and tugged the collar of his shirt. Yes, he would be cold and the prowlers
would find him straight away.
‘Boy,’ she
hissed.
The boy’s head
jerked up, his eyes widening with fear. She could see the river dancing in them.
It was a good sign. The river liked him.
‘Boy,’
she repeated.
Now
he was scrambling up, his shining shoes churning up the mud. He was older than
she had first thought, but still young. Besides, once she had decided something
there was no retracing her thoughts. She
moved out of the tall grasses. A thin shadow in the night.
‘Come,’
she said, she held out her hand, ‘come, boy.’
He
turned towards her, she saw his surprise: his mouth dropping open, his eyes
wide. He stumbled back. He slipped on the mud-slicked bank. His cry flew out of
his mouth like a bird as he fell, and was cut off by the splash he made into
the river. The river girl started forward, her hand still held out, and then
she dove, slipping beneath the surface of the water, sliding into it like a
slither of moonlight. She left no footprints on the bank, no ripples on the
water, only the sound of the wind through the reeds.
Michael
didn’t know where he was going as he left the wedding party. He didn’t
particularly care. He just wanted out. He climbed the fence at the back of the
hotel and landed on the springy wild grass of the field with relief. Behind him
he could hear the music pounding from the sweating disco room, but out here it
was cold. The moaning of the night air suited him better. Earlier, he and dad
had walked this way, kicking at the skeleton dandelion heads and watching the
seeds swirling away. He could see the cows huddled together in the far corner.
The sky above was clear, the stars bright. It was a night for things to happen.
Michael
stomped across the field, deliberately ignoring the meandering path they’d made
earlier and instead heading towards the sound of water. In the moonlight he
could see the tall shapes of the bulrushes that bowed and shook by the river.
The earth here was dank and damp. It stank of cow dung and slid beneath his
feet. He sat on the bank and stared down at the glassy river. He did not care
if his suit got covered in foul oozing mud. It was a fitting end to the day. A
day when everything had seemed wrong.
He
sat for long moments watching the river. It was hypnotic. It drained his
thoughts and carried them away with its current. Goodbye Amanda, goodbye Ben,
goodbye dad.
Slowly,
as his head emptied of the buzzing angriness that he had been carrying around
all day, he came to hear other things. The rustle of the bulrushes, the light
popping of the mud beneath him as air bubbles let out gasps of surprise,
movement of nightime creatures on the opposite bank plopping into the river. He
felt his heartbeat steadying, the dampness from the ground seeping in through
his thin trousers, the air tickling his neck.
And then he heard it, a strange
whispery voice, fragmented, like droplets of water:
‘Boy.’
He
looked up, startled. Someone had followed him. Ben. But no, Ben would never
whisper at him from the shadows he would hurl himself onto Michael shouting ‘I
got you Mikey! Now swing me round! Swing me round!’
‘Boy.’
It
came again, louder, closer. Michael jumped up, slipping on the muddy bank. He
must be hearing things, the wind through the grass. He should be heading back
now, they would miss him. He turned from the river and a shadow caught his eye.
‘Come,
boy,’ the shadow extended a hand, dark green eyes glinted at him in the
starlight, enveloped in darkness.
Michael
heard himself cry out as he stumbled backwards. His heart was in his throat,
his feet gave out beneath him, he tried to grab something, but there was
nothing but air, and then there was nothing but water. Icy, mud filled water in
his mouth, up his nose, cloying at his eyes. He thrashed, weeds twisted about
him, held him down, the current caught him and pulled him on. He could see
nothing, could hear only his heart and the roaring of his fear.
And
then, something beneath his arms, holding him, steadying him and slowing
everything down. He relaxed, his limbs drifted around him. The mud cleared from
the water like gravy granules dissolving.
His lungs were burning, his head dizzy, but the water was letting him
go, he was rising. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air.
‘Come,
boy’ said the same distorted voice, but whoever it was remained behind him,
hands gripping him firmly beneath his arms. ‘We not stay here. They come. Take
deep breath.’
Before
he could argue, before he could really breathe again, he was under once more,
into the world of murky water and shadows.
The
river girl pulled him along easily. She was strong when she wanted to be.
Strong as a river current. She rose often to let him grope for air, waiting as
he spluttered and coughed at the moon and then she dove again. He struggled a
little at first, but she had held him fast. He did not understand the danger he
had been in.
Monday, 3 February 2014
Here and Gone
If I hadn’t seen the tree. If I hadn’t seen
the tree and the plastic-coated wire fence clinging to it, I’d never have
known. I’d never have known that this was where the house had stood. How our memories
lie.
My
granny takes my hand while my brother chases dreams a mile in front. The field
is a prairie, the grass waves tall as my head, the sun beats down on my t-shirt
and makes me squirm. I am a hunter, hunting the rare Dominic-beast leaping like
an antelope before me. I squint through the heat. His hair flashes in the sun
as he forages amongst the tall grass. My hunting hat is hot; I take it off and
wipe off sweat with a dust streaked hand. I’ve been hunting all day in this
sticky weather, I’m exhausted and hungry, will this Dominic-beast never tire? I
must make it to the castle where they are expecting the beast’s head on a
silver platter. If only I had a horse to chase him down. I can’t make it…I
swoon.
‘Walk
properly,’ my granny snaps as her arm tugs with my weight. She frowns down at me.
I am a princess
stolen by a wicked witch. She is marching me across the wilderness to her
castle where she will lock me in the dungeon leaving her devil boy to taunt me.
The devil boy is turning; he’s running at me, look out!
‘Race you to the
drawbridge!’ he cries and turns again the other way.
I am a horse
galloping down the grass, my brother-horse races ahead, we are wild and free on
the mountains… the playground looms ahead. My breath is in my head, my brother
wins.
If I hadn’t spotted the plastic-coated
chicken wire protruding from the tree trunk, I would have been sure I had stopped
at the wrong layby. The evening had turned damp and cold, the light milky, and
at first I blamed that for not recognising where I was. Then I realised - this wasn’t the place. That place was ten years ago. This place was now.
My granny lives
in a Lego-brick. A beige one. There are lots of them scattered around the Ministry
of Defence. I crouch in the earth of the flowerbed and peek through the wire
fence, I know I shouldn’t, I could be arrested - they might think I’m spy.
‘Rosie, get out
of the dust, come here.’ My mother calls me over; we are taking photos underneath
the apple tree. We stand in a row next to Zakkie’s grave. (Zakkie was granny’s
grey poodle. There’s a picture of him on top of the telly). Click, click, one
more for luck. Someone approaches us from the other side of the fence.
‘That’s enough,
no more please, this is a secure area’. I can’t see his face because a branch
is in my way, but he wears a dark suit and has a walkie-talkie in his hand.
‘It’s a family
photo!’ My dad protests, his grip on my hand is tight.
‘Please no
more.’ The man stands watching us until the camera is put away. Next time I
visit the apple tree is gone.
‘They didn’t
want people climbing it,’ my granny explains as we crumble bread for the birds.
She must mean they didn’t like me and my brother climbing it, we were the only
ones.
I stared at the empty space. How could there
have been houses here once? Jean and Bill with the Siamese cats, Lucy who had
fingernails so long and clean they were like claws, the family with the slide
in the back garden. Now there are only my memories that don’t match what I can
see. How did all those lives fit in?
I stand in the
doorway to Grandad’s shed. It’s dark and cobwebs pattern the window. I like to
run my fingers in the dust of the workbench and play with the vice that bites
into the edge. Outside the sun dazzles me; I scuttle into the shade and open
the coal bin. It’s black and glittering and I know it’s an entrance to the Cave of Wonders that leads to the sea. Later it
takes a long time to get the coal dust off my fingers.
My granny’s
house is a world full of multicoloured carpets and green flowered wall paper.
There’s a glass cabinet at the end of the hall where treasure is locked in with
a grey twirly key. A silk-lined, musty shell purse is the greatest prize. I
handle it softly; Mermaids gave it to my granny when she was younger. I lock it
up, the key gives a satisfying click.
There’s a case
of records in the freezer room. I flip through them, savouring the slap on slap
of vinyl and cardboard. The record-player is in the living room and it’s the
size of a cupboard. I dance around singing:
‘Brown girl in
the ring sha-la-la-la
There’s a brown girl
in the ring, sha-la-la-la-la-la’
My
granny dances with me, her velvet slippers scuffing up the orange rug. I’m fascinated
with her feet. She has extra toes. They grow out the side of her feet by her
big toe. Her slippers bulge with them.
‘They’re called
bunions,’ she tells me when I dare ask. I stare hard at my own feet. I want bunion-toes.
They must be useful when it comes to climbing trees. After my granny tucks me
in I check my feet. Big toe, little toe…no bunion-toe, not today.
The ministry seemed bigger than ever. I’d
forgotten how close it was. I don’t linger once I’ve found the wire. The
ministry was always touchy.
Me
and Dominic are in the tree in the front garden, there are no trees left out the
back. You have to climb onto the green wire fence and then into the fork of the
tree, pinging out woodlice and spiders. We watch the sun go down and stay out
until the light makes our eyes feel funny.
‘Look,’
Dominic says as he helps me down. His muddy finger is pointing at the fence.
‘It’s eating it.’
I look. It’s true, the tree is slowly swallowing the fence
into its greedy bark, we pull at it but it won’t budge.
‘That’ll
be there forever,’ Dominic decides and he races me to the front door.
They pulled her house down a few months
after she moved into the home. One by one the houses were all pulled down. What
was once a street of beige bungalows is now just a lay-by and an empty bit of
lawn in front of the ministry.
In
years to come a passer-by may pause, finger that snatch of fence and wonder how
it came there. Or when they dig the ground up for some new building people will
puzzle over how a poodle got buried outside the MOD.
Saturday, 1 February 2014
Ardvark
He
loiters in the corner of the reference section, long white splotched fingers
worrying the edge of his wax scented anorak. The sound of the material rubbing
makes the assistant grit her teeth. She raises her eyes to glare at him over
the register. He blinks at her and clutches his pocket tightly. Swallowing, he
turns his back to her and stares at the rows of thesauri towering above him.
Dark
and shady. The best habitat for me. If you want to see me in my natural state
head to your local library (R.A.R.Y, there’s no E.R in the middle), or bookshop
or, hell, even supermarkets these days. You’ll find me loitering in the
forgotten corners of the reference (now there’s an E.R) section: those endless
rows on rows of thick dominating books…
He
wonders: How long has it been? He half forms the question and so emits a low
moan. His fingers scrabble in his pocket, not relaxing until he feels the
ridged cap of the bottle. Sweat is brewing in his hairline; he wipes it off
with the back of his hand. A pen is clutched in his white-knuckled grip. He shuffles along the row to his favourite:
Concise Oxford.
You can
smell the staleness of words in those books, which is strange because if words
should live anywhere it should be in there, arranged as they are in their high
rise columns (that’s a U after the L not an O) surrounded by gardens of
explanations and definitions…
Moistening
damp lips he reaches out; his movements are swift, sudden. He pulls a book from
the shelf, it falls to the floor belly up. He is on his knees, scrabbling to
the front. The smell of chemicals lingers over the pages. He counts thirty-five
measured seconds, no more, no less. Perfect timing. The book is in his hands
and back on the shelf and he is bobbing his apologies to the assistant heading
over to him. And he is out again, blinking in the afternoon glow of the city.
Maybe
that is why they grow stagnant, why people avoid them - too intent on finding
the predictable thrill of suburban literature. Not me. I thrive in everyone’s
disinterest. Ignorant fools, they have no idea of the value of the books they
buy but never read. Just think, every other book is read completely. Every
single word savoured and devoured. Not these. These books lead a half life. Condemned
(it’s an N not another M) to have a word read every few months or even years.
What else is a book good for, if not reading? Gathering dust. That’s good for
nothing…
He
was troubled by it even as a boy. Pudgy fingers tracing the large Eiffel tower shape and then hesitating. Always hesitating
over the little one, the baby. It looks wrong. It feels wrong. How did it get
there?
Call me
obsessive if you like (two S’s, one B). Many do. I’m not obsessive. I just
like things to be right. I like things to make sense. I don’t understand why no
one will take me seriously. I deserve to be taken seriously. If I see a mistake
I have to correct it. That makes me a good person, a decent person. Just think
what this world would be like if everyone corrected the mistakes they see. What
a beautiful world (don’t forget the A).
He
wrote his first letter at the age of fourteen. It was polite,
courteous and was (in his view) completely on the side of reason. He received a
reply a month later. They thanked him for the letter, sent him a book voucher
and wished him well in his future career as (they had no doubt) an editor.
Encouraged, he wrote to every publisher and eagerly bought new editions. The
amendment wasn’t made.
Dear
Sir
My name
is Daniel Harvey. I am a great fan of the books you do. However I have to point
out a serious error. You have misspelled Ardvark and assigned it an extra A. This
is a common mistake, but I am sure if you look closely at the word then it will
become obvious that such a spelling is preposterous.
Yours,
in anticipation of future good spelling,
Daniel.
And
so he continues. Armed with tip-ex and a pen, roaming the reference section of
all book retailers: a one man crusade to right the word that was once spelt
wrong, and never, ever corrected.
Aardvark…
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