Result!

[Today's snippet of new prose comes from another Write Invite entry; I came fourth with this piece based on the trigger 'racing'.]  

The notice was on the board when we arrived back at school at the end of the Easter Holidays: 'Scholarship to Summer Training Camp'. Apparently one of the old boys - or 'alumni' as Headmaster 'Micky' Mouseton insisted on calling them - was involved in running a training event for promising athletes during August each year. Seems old Micky had managed to persuade him to offer a free place to someone from our school this year.

Now, I'm a fair athlete myself, although Ma says I shouldn't boast, and I thought I'd have a go at that - it didn't look like we were getting a holiday this year, and at least it would be a break from the same old shops and parks around here. There's not much competition in the running stakes, not at this school anyway. 

The notice said the winner would be whoever finished top of the race league at the end of term. So the following evening I turned up for running practice with all the other hopefuls. True, my trainers were old and battered; my kit was handed down from my elder brother and already half a size too small, but I didn't think that would matter when I started running.

And then I saw Roddy - the new boy who'd just moved into the area. He was in the same class as me, but I'd not had much to do with him so far - he seemed a bit snobby to tell the truth. I'd already spotted there was a fair bit of cash in the family - it was obvious from the quality of his school uniform - didn't look like his mum shopped in Matalan.

And when I caught a look at the trainers he was wearing, my heart sank. State of the art, although not brand new; he'd obviously had a good bit of running practice. Looked like I'd got some competition after all. And as I strolled up to the little group waiting for practice to start, I heard Roddy speak:

"Yes, I've won quite a few races; my trainer says I could win far more if I practised a bit harder."

There was one girl in the group I didn't recognise; stunning looking, with long golden hair, big boobs and a bottom that would have given Kylie a run for her money. It looked like Roddy was successful in the girl stakes as well as running.

Now, I bet you think this is going to be a take on the tortoise and hare scenario, don't you? That the poor boy worked harder than the rich kid, beat him in the final race and snatched the scholarship from under his nose. Well, life's not like that! With better equipment, money to spend on private one-to-one training and, if I'm honest, a bit more speed than me, Roddy beat me in nearly every race and topped the league with no problem at all.

So in August, Roddy went off to the Training Camp to enjoy his prize, while I stayed at home, wandering around the shops or lazing in the park. Mind you, it wasn't all bad; the girl with golden hair wasn't Roddy's girlfriend; she was his sister. And what with it being her first summer in this town, and with her brother being away, she spent most of the time wandering around the shops or lazing in the park too. Result!

Make Do and Mend [Part 3]

We didn’t usually bother to dress up when we went to the Youth Club. Jeans and jumpers were the order of the day. But that night was different. I’d come straight from having tea with an old friend of Mum’s; very ‘old-school’ she was — in fact she’d been a school teacher before she retired. Wearing my new blouse of cascading lace ruffles and a pleated skirt, I felt a bit over-dressed to be honest. But then Ted walked in and suddenly I was glad I’d made the effort. Not that he came near me all evening, but I caught him watching me several times. 

 

 

We were getting our coats at the end of the evening when I felt a sharp tug at my shoulder.

 

“Keep still,” said a voice in my ear, “we seem to be tangled up.”  I spun round and found my face inches from Ted’s; his arm was stretched across my shoulder at a strange angle. He frowned at me. “I said keep still. Turn round again.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m not doing anything! My watch buckle’s caught in your blouse.”

 

I twisted round further to look over my shoulder. He sighed and shuffled after me, trying to unhook himself. We must have looked like two dogs chasing each other’s tails. Suddenly, with a tearing sound, his arm pulled away, trailing a steamer of lace from his watch strap. There was a moment of deafening silence before I grabbed my coat and ran from the hall in tears.

 

I never did wear that blouse again. But I never threw it away either.

Make Do and Mend [Part 1]

[I started this story during last week's Write Invite competition, using the trigger 'The Present'. It didn't get short-listed, and the original ending (which I have deleted) was not strong enough. So I've posted the opening few paragraphs and I'm going to develop the story over the next few weeks. I currently have no idea where it will go - but that's the joy of writing fiction.]

 

"Trouble with you, Mum, you're too fond of living in the past!." Mark stood with his hands on his hips, looking in at the spare room. "We're going to have to throw all this junk out. There won't be room for it when you move in with us."

"In my day, we didn't just throw stuff out," I said, "we kept it for a rainy day; we always found a use for things in the end. Make do and mend, we called it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. There was a war on; you didn't have money to waste... but like I said, you're living in the past." He dodged as I threw a cushion at him and then gave one last look at the room before following me into the kitchen for a cup of tea. "We'll tackle that next weekend, if you like."

I knew he was right, of course. There wasn't going to be room in the little annex for the contents of a fifty-year marriage. And maybe keeping all the children's old clothes, as well as our own, was a bit excessive. But I wanted to go through it on my own first, before our past - mine and Ted's - was given away to the charity shop or a jumble sale. [to be continued]

She Who Holds The Pen...

[Today's snippet of new prose was written in response to a Write Invite trigger last September: 'power'. While it is completely fictional, I'm sure many people would be able to identify with Suzy's insecurities — I know I have at times.]

 

By the third week of term, I was ready to jack it all in! I'd got past the homesickness. I was used to having to fend for myself and — worse still — to pay for myself. But I really couldn't get to the point where I could make myself heard in the seminars.

 

All the other students had something to say, to contribute to the questions our oh-so-clever lecturers threw at us. They sat on the desks, or on the floor, around flip-charts in break-out rooms, throwing out words that went right over my head.  How could I ever hope to make an impact?

 

I really shouldn't have been there, you see. I'd applied for the course because my parents told everyone I was going to University — and I didn't have the nerve to say I didn't want to go, didn't think I'd be able to keep up.

 

So I'd filled in the forms, gone to the interview, somehow made a good enough impression with the interview panel — and they offered me a place. Don't worry, I thought, there's no way you're going to get the grades for this. You'll be able to quietly fade into the background when the results came out.

 

It was therefore a huge surprise, not to say, shock, to get straight A*s in all my subjects. My parents were delighted, threw a huge party for me — and the next thing I knew, here I was at Imperial College studying engineering.

 

Only I wasn't — studying, that is. I tried — I really did, but none of the words made sense — and so when we got to the seminars I was tongue-tied. And everyone ignored me. Until today. When I arrived in the seminar room, Abraham was the only one there. 

 

"Hi Suzy," he said, "I'm glad you've arrived early." He held up a bandaged hand. "It's my turn to write up the notes and present them back to the class, but as you can see, I've had a bit of an accident."

 

"Not me, I can't write it up," I shook my head and shrank back into my seat. "I won't know what to write."

 

"Of course you will," he said, "and if you get stuck, I'll help."

 

So while Abraham led the discussion, I wrote up the points made by everyone else — and I didn't need any help, either.

 

When we went back into the lecture theatre, Abraham volunteered our group to go first with feedback. He stood up, began to give our conclusions, then stopped and look around at me.

 

"Sorry, Suzy, I can't read all your writing. Can you take it from here?" And without thinking about what I was doing, that's just what I did. I stood up, fed back everyone's comments, added in a couple original thoughts of my own — and sat down, My legs were trembling, and I was short of breath, but I had a warm feeling of pride — especially when the lecturer praised me for my succinct coverage of the points.

 

Right about then, I realised three things: Abraham had really great eyes; I was starting to enjoy my course at last; and my father had been right when he said "she who holds the pen wields the power."

Filthy Writing

[Today's snippet of new prose grew out of a writing exercise: one of the triggers on last week's Write Invite competition was 'New Page'. With just 30 minutes to write and submit my entry, this was the first thing that came to mind.]

I write like I've never written before. The words pour out of me like grains of rice on the day Sally knocked over the jar. Then, we watched in horror as the contents spilled across the table, cascaded over the edge and spread across the slate tiles in a pool that grew without stopping. There seemed to be too much to get back into the container. We couldn't believe so much mess came out of such a small space.

 

Now, I watch, as though unconnected with the process, as words spill from my pen onto the smooth white page. Words I have never said out loud; words I didn't realise I knew.

 

This can't be me writing. I write nice stories. Stories where good people have sad things happen to them, but overcome their problems and get what they deserve in the end. Stories where bad people do terrible things, but to no avail; where the villain gets his come-uppance in the final paragraph. I tell people browsing through my books: "there's nothing in there you couldn't show to your maiden aunt." I write stories I wouldn't be ashamed to show my mother - and that she would be happy to read.

 

So where does this filth come from? This anger, this rage. It flows from me in torrents; like the torrents of water that rolled down from the moors, swelled our stream, broke the banks, engulfed our garden, and then burst through our doors and windows. It is red; red like the Devon mud; red like the lights I see behind my lids when I squeeze my eyes shut against the devastation.  Red, like the blood I imagine flowing from every orifice when I hit the insurance company operative who tells me there's no-one on duty at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, and "can I call back tomorrow?"

 

Gradually, as the days pass, the flow slows down, the number of words diminishes, the language becomes cleaner. I look out of the window at the stream, chuckling in a 'butter-wouldn't-melt' way over the stony bed. It too is clean once more. 

 

I take a deep breath, turn to a clean page in my notebook and start to plot my next story. But just occasionally, I glance back at the earlier words and wonder if maybe, just maybe, some of them might be useful.

Sadie's Sensible Shopping

[A very Happy New Year to all of you. I haven't made any resolutions this year - that way, I avoid being disappointed in myself when I fail to keep them. But if I had, they might just have been a bit like Sadie's...]

 

 

“Oh God — never again!” Sadie surveyed her kitchen-diner with a grimace: empty champagne bottles on the table, the remains of a Chinese takeaway; Christmas cards on the dresser and a tired-looking tree at the window. A pair of stiletto shoes lay discarded in the corner, next to a bathroom scales. On the wall hung a new calendar.

Massaging her temples and groaning, she opened the fridge and began pulling out packs and cartons. She checked labels, sniffed contents and wrinkled her nose. Everything went in a black bin-bag on the floor.

“Time to shop,” she said, “but sensibly this year!”

 

Sadie selected a couple of glossy cookbooks from the shelf. She grabbed a pad and drew a table with seven columns, labelling each with a day of the week. She flicked though the cookbooks, jotting down ideas, crossing them out and chewing the end of her pen. Finally, she stuffed the pad in her bag and hurried out of the door.

 

At the supermarket, Sadie started in the vegetables section, beneath a picture of steaming baked potatoes, covered with grated cheese. She stared longingly at the picture and her hand stretched towards the King Edwards. She chose a large bag and put it in her trolley.

At the dairy counter, she saw adverts for farmhouse butter on crumpets, a golden melting rivulet. She took two packs. Returning to the vegetables, she replaced the potatoes with mixed salad, cooking apples and bananas.

Back at the dairy counter, she rummaged in the cheeses, handling packs of Gorgonzola, Cheshire and Cheddar, before picking white Stilton with apricots. She paused, shook her head, and exchanged the butter for a small tub of vegetable-oil spread.

 

At the meat counter, other customers were ordering slabs of sirloin steak, marbled with creamy fat, fat sausages or pork chops with rind perfect for crackling. When her turn came, Sadie chose a skinless chicken breast.

The bakery is decorated with pictures of golden toast, smothered in strawberry jam or honey. She picked a white, unsliced loaf. Returning to the diary counter, she swapped Stilton for low-fat cottage cheese. She stood in the centre of the aisle, ignoring the crowd flowing around her, muttering and shaking her head. Finally she returned to the bakery and replaced her loaf with a small sliced slimmer’s wholemeal and a packet of crispbreads.

Waiting her turn at the checkout, Sadie flicked through a magazine from the rack. Without looking, she stretched out her hand for one of the strategically-placed chocolate bars. Realising what she had done, she stared at it for a moment then shrugged and dropped it into the trolley.

“And that’s what I call sensible shopping,” she said with a smile.

Chasing Stars with a Butterfly Net

[As this is my last blog post until January 2nd, I'm putting up more than a snippet this week. This is a short story written earlier this year for a competition on the theme of 'Stars'. I hope you enjoy it. May I wish everyone a joyous holiday, whatever you celebrate, and a peaceful New Year. See you in 2014.] 

 

 

After the funeral, Amy’s grandparents took her to live with them on the farm. Clambering down from the back of the battered, muddy Land Rover, her gaze was drawn to the wide patch of light making a path from her feet, across the yard and through the field towards the horizon where a creamy cratered moon stared down on her.  She leaned backwards against the vehicle and gasped as she slowly took in the display above her head. Orion’s Belt, the Plough, the Great Bear plus many others she couldn’t name; and threading through them all, the glowing arch of the Milky Way. As a well-educated teenager with an interest in science, she recognised these phenomena from the books she’d read and the television programmes she’d watched with her parents. But as a city girl visiting the Devon countryside for the first time in many years, this was a whole new experience. 

"Do you think they’re up there somewhere, Gramps?” she asked, her voice breaking and the tears she’d held back on the long drive from London finally beginning to slide down her cheeks. Her grandfather sighed and stood for a long time with his arm around her shoulder before speaking. She was beginning to think he hadn’t heard her question.

“I don’t know, poppet,” he said finally, “maybe they are. You know, in ancient times,” he continued, “they used to believe that every person on earth is represented by a star. When Fate decides your time is up, she snips the thread anchoring the star in place in the heavens.”

“And the star goes out?”

 

“Well, maybe, but only after making its way spectacularly to the afterlife.” He squeezed her shoulders and bent to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Come child, let’s go in. Tomorrow night, I’ll take you to watch their final journey.”

 

 

“Nanny, are you sure you don’t want to come with us,” Amy said the next evening as she and her grandfather collected together blankets, torches and a flask of hot chocolate.

 

“Good gracious no, child,” laughed her grandmother, “My star-gazing days are over. I’ll just settle down with my new Dick Francis until you get back.”

The young girl and the old man walked across the field and threw down their blankets on a clear piece of grass next to the pond. Switching off the torches, they lay flat on their backs and waited for the show to begin.

Amy knew shooting stars were really meteors, small particles of debris burning up as they pass through Earth’s atmosphere. But right now, she didn’t need the science or the truth. She needed a way to connect with her parents, snatched from her suddenly, shockingly, by a careless driver, while she was at a friend’s birthday party.

“They go so quickly,” she whispered. “If only I could hold on to one of them.”

As the Perseids meteor shower fizzed and crackled above her head, she tried closing her eyes, capturing the images, but although the stars flickered briefly against her closed lids, they soon disappeared.

 

“The Greeks believed a shooting star was good luck,” said her grandfather.        

“Maybe we should see if we could track one, see where it falls.”

 

“Or better still, catch it in mid-flight,” laughed Amy. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright. “Gramps, I’ve got an idea! Can we come back tomorrow?”

 

 

When the pair left the farmyard for their starry theatre the next evening, Amy had an old butterfly net tucked under her arm. As they lay watching the display, she tried to wrap the net around each of the fiery trails. Her head told her it was an impossibility, but part of her still had to keep trying; the part of her that wanted to believe if she could catch her parents’ stars she would be able to keep them with her a bit longer.

 

“No, that was someone else,” she would whisper each time she missed. “When

it’s you, I’ll know.”

 

Amy didn’t catch her shooting star that night, nor any night that week. As August gave way to September, she started at her new school and star-gazing was replaced, at her grandmother’s insistence, with homework and early nights. As time passed, the hurt became less of a sharp knife in her stomach and more like a dull ache that could be ignored most of the time. 

 

Every year, in the middle of August, Amy and Gramps would cross the field and lie staring at the stars. She never really gave up the hope that she would catch a star, but as she grew older, she swapped the butterfly net for a camera. Even when she left the farm to travel the world, taking pictures of other places, other constellations, she still tried to return in August, to share a week of star-gazing with the old man, especially after her grandmother passed away.

But this year, it was too late. She’d got the call while she was on a photo shoot in Kenya. A heart attack, a short, sharp shock and it was all over. Standing at the graveside where her beloved Gramps was now reunited with his wife, Amy smiled through her tears.

“I guess you’ll have a ringside seat at the show this year Gramps,” she said, “and no doubt Nanny will be keeping you company once more. But don’t worry, I won’t be alone either. I’ve brought someone with me; I think you’d like him.” Then, dropping her flowers on the grave, she turned away to where her new boyfriend, Ian, stood waiting for her. He was an astronomer; they’d met when she’d attended a lecture he’d given on The Myths and Realities of Shooting Stars.

Late that night, Amy and Ian left the farm she now owned, carrying blankets, torches and hot chocolate. They crossed the field to lie under the stars and say farewell to Gramps. And for one last time, Amy had a butterfly net tucked under her arm.

 

Looking and Seeing

[Back in September, I wrote about a day spent with Chudleigh Writers' Circle in the garden of one of the members. Then it was all about the bigger picture, snapshots and the memories they invoked. This week's snippet came from an exercise in looking at one particular spot.]

From a distance, we see the shape; it is short compared to its neighbours, the overshadowing firs. The trunk is dark and straight; its branches splay out in all directions — yes, that’s right — exactly like Sideshow Bob, although his hair is red and those branches are green.

 

Walk closer with me, but take care for the ground is uneven. From here, the trunk is shorter, overshadowed and overgrown by the branches. And most point downwards and out to the side. They remind me of that photo of water dropping into a puddle, the splashes frozen in time. And the colour is no longer uniform; splashes of paler green and red appear among the dark forest hue of the leaves.

 

And now, as we move closer still, standing at eye-level with the tree, the trunk is no more than a shadow, a dark impression coated in robes of jungle green and red, like legs glimpsed through summer skirts in sunlight. The branches now divide into a chorus line supporting just one star that, centre-stage, takes its bow before this eager audience. A spiky, shiny skirt on silver limbs gives way to apple gingham, reds and greens both pale and dark.

 

 

But wait, our vision blurs and jumps in fear as a striped defender inspects the visitors. Keep still and feel the merest touch, as the guard checks us out, decides we will not harm her tree, and flies off to other business.

 

 

And finally, we reach the centre-point, the mid-point, the whole point of this journey. We looked at a tree, but now we see instead a different shape, a different colour, a pale apple green and rosy blushing fruit that is the point of everything.

Peace is Not at Home

[For the past 20 years, I have been lucky enough to visit Russia many times and my experiences and impressions colour much of my writing. This piece was written after a visit to Yekaterinburg.]

 

 

Screams rise from the earth and walls bleed pain; memories of children dying for their parents’ deeds. 

 

She pauses with her hand on the door, wondering if she should leave, but all is silent now and her feet draw her onwards, inwards. She had come here to think, maybe to find peace.  Away from the streets with its souvenir stalls and milling crowds.  Too early for guided tours, too late for the morning service, she is temporarily alone. 

 

Unlike other Orthodox churches — dark, with smoke-blackened wood, ancient icons, incense and melodic voices — this is built in honey-coloured stone and seems warm, without the draughts she has come to expect.  Sunlight through the windows in the cupola illuminates the murals and mosaics, colours bursting from the walls.  The altar screen is delicately carved.  There is no singing; just a reverential hush.

 

This should be a haven of peace and tranquillity.    People come in groups to share the joy of weddings and christenings, the solemnity of a funeral.  They come alone to pray or meditate; no-one bothers them as they stand in contemplation.

 

But she shivers as the echo of horror and violence bathes her once more in waves of frigid air.  This ‘Church on the Blood’ was once the Ipatiev House where five children were shot and bayoneted in atonement for their parents’ excesses. A family born to privilege and power, surrounded by controversy and finally overtaken by history.  Their bodies, burnt with acid and thrown into a pit in the forest, had lain unknown for more than half a century. They are now the object of pilgrimage for thousands.

 

As she crosses the open space below the huge dome, she hears their shades calling to her once more.  In a small alcove behind the altar, a photograph of the Romanov family sits on a pillar at the epicentre of the terror. She sees and smells the blood, feels the fear, hears the screams.  Whatever else she might find here, peace is not at home. 

 

She heads for the doorway and fresh air, passing other early morning visitors.  She wonders how they can be so calm and at peace.  Don’t they hear the echoes of the past?

Liqud Plastic Sea

[Today's snippet of new prose has seen the light of day before. In April 2013, I published an ebook called Parcels in the Rain and Other Writing. Tomorrow, I am publishing the print version. So today, here's a little taster, based on an wonderful evening I spent in Plymouth a couple of years back.]

 

 

They come in ones or twos at first. A trickle becomes a flood, then stops. They capture territory — on rugs or chairs, with food and beer. Barbeque wood-smoke scents the air. Children and dogs roam free as daylight fades.

 

The sea is liquid plastic. Yachts are cornflake packet models. A ferry hugs the coast, shy of entering port. The distant coastline glitters with fairground lights beneath the orange-striped horizon.

 

 

 

Flares hit the sky. The sea begins to boil. The liquid plastic ignites in rainbows, shooting skywards, before dropping back on anchored boats.  Smeaton’s Tower blazes through the smoke. Palm-trees bloom golden then fade away.

 

Faces turned towards the sky, they gaze with children’s eyes, wide open, smiling, in awe. They’ve seen this spectacle six or sixty times, but still it’s like the first. Their murmured praises lost beneath the waves of sound, they reach out and trace the glowing trails across the sky.

 

 

 

A faint smell of cordite lingers on the breeze. Ears are stunned by explosions: the bangs and whines of igniting dreams. The after-image burns upon their eyes.

 

They leave in ones or twos at first. A trickle becomes a flood, then stops. 

The Chase

[I've always tended to write pleasant stories, with good characters who get what they desire - and deserve. In fact, I'm thinking of calling my next anthology Nice Stories with Happy Endings. Today's snippet of new prose was a deliberate attempt to buck the trend. Did I succeed?]

 

 

Her breasts heave as she struggles to catch her breath. The chase is long and hard. He starts running as soon as he sees her. They race up the hill, weaving between the trees, his heavy boots thudding through the dried leaves and hardened mud. Her sneakers make less noise and she is more agile on her feet.

 

The path splits; each takes a different fork, but the ways turn back together and then he's in front of her. Arms pinned down, a swift kick behind the knees and they fall to the ground together and roll under the bushes. Clothes pulled hurriedly away from hot skin, the action is savage and short-lived. A final thrust with a sharp blade mimics the coupling of moments before.

 

Climbing from her position astride the man, she utters a short prayer. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a cigarillo. And she smiles.

Rushing to the Ball Part 3

[Last week we saw my take on the old fable The Tortoise and the Hare. from the point of view of Harold Racer. This week's snippet of new prose is the same story, told through the eyes of Tommie, his brother.

I wasn’t looking forward to the Summer Ball. Harold had persuaded me to go, in fact he’d paid for the ticket so I couldn’t really complain, but I knew what would happen - it had happened before, We’d go there together, sit together for the meal - and then he’d get off with someone and I’d be no more use to him.

“You OK to get home on your own?” he’d said to me last year as he’d shepherded the Carnival Queen out towards the car park. I’d ended up walking the six miles home - and that’s no fun in a DJ and new shoes.

This year, I was going under my own steam. The Land Rover’s not too smart, but at least I'd have my own set of wheels.

I left home ten minutes after Harold - he’d been in a rush as usual. It had been raining all day, well, all year really, and the lanes were quite treacherous. As I got to the bottom of the hill, I slowed down. I knew it had been flooded there before. And that’s when I saw him. Oh dear, I know it’s not really funny - but he looked so forlorn standing up to his knees in water. I’d have stopped, but he’d already called the AA. As I drove past, I had a sudden thought; this year’s Carnival Queen was even fitter than last year’s.

Rushing to the Ball Part 2

[A couple of weeks ago, I posted my take on the old fable The Tortoise and the Hare. This week's snippet of new prose is the same story, told through the eyes of Harold Racer, one of the two brothers.]

He’s such a slowcoach that brother of mine! I’ve been ready for ages and he’s still fiddling with his bow tie.

“Come on Tommie, get a move on! “ I say. And then he tells me he’s taking the Land Rover — well, he could have told me before — I’d have had a chance to suss out the talent while the Pimm's was being served.

OK, keys, ticket, wallet — here we go. Car’s looking good. I had her polished specially — the girls do love driving in a shiny red motor.

Oops, that was a bit slippery — someone could hurt themselves there — must mention that blind corner to the old guy up the road — he’s on the Council — he’ll sort it out.

Funny, the road looks all shiny down there — late sun shining through the hedge I guess.

Oh my god, come on girl, keep going! Can’t brake, she’ll stall...

Oh bugger!

Yeuk, that’s going to stain.

 

"Hello, is that the AA?"

Rocking to Parenthood

[Recently, I was delighted to win the weekly 'Write Invite' competition. Based on one of three triggers, posted at 5.30pm on a Saturday evening, the exercise is to write and submit a piece before 6pm. In such a short time, the emphasis is inevitably on getting the words down, rather than fully polishing the piece. Today's snippet of prose is the story that won me my prize.]

 

 

I might not have been conceived in the back room of the Kings Arms just after closing time one Saturday night in December 1998 - but that's where it all started. My mother had gone with her mates to see Crimson Star playing their farewell gig before heading for London and 'the big time'.

 

Everyone loved Crimson Star - four local lads with ambition to top the charts and then make it big in the States. Charlie Mann the lead singer was everyone's favourites. He had all the girls - not to mention a few of the boys - sighing after him. Yes, everyone wanted to be with C the Mann - apart from my mother, that is.

 

Mum took one look at Chris, the drummer and she was gone. He had long curly hair tied back with a leather strap; he wore sleeveless T-shirts, even in the middle of winter, and he had a picture of Keith Moon tattooed on his chest.

 

When the gig was over, mum's mates all gathered around Charlie; everyone was paying attention to him; no-one had eyes for anyone else, so no-one noticed when Chris took mum's arm and pulled her away from the crowd and into the back room.

 

When Crimson Star left town two weeks later, my mum went with them. Well, not exactly with them, in the van - but she ran away from home, moved to London, got a job as a temp - and then started following the guys around wherever they went. At first they laughed at Chris, told him he was soft to put up with her, but gradually, they stopped, when they realised he was serious about her.

 

By the time they'd all been in London for six months, mum had stopped temping and started acting as a backing singer on some of the gigs. But then she got pregnant - and things started to go awry. My dad didn't want her working while I was on the way. The band didn't want a pregnant woman cramping their style - not a good look in the dressing room and at the late night parties. So mum and I came home. She didn't expect to see Chris ever again.

 

If you're going to be brought up by a single parent, it sure helps to be able to tell your mates the missing one is a rock star. When they ask me why it's always my dad who picks me up from school, I tell them about Crimson Star, about four young lads who lived the dream until they woke up. And I tell them about one - called Charlie Mann - who became a record producer, remembered a pregnant young woman with a voice like Janis Joplin, and took here away to change her life. Then I point to the pictures on YouTube and in Hello!

 

"That's my mum," I say, "she's a rock star."

Rushing to the Ball

[Following on from last week's modern telling of an old nursery rhyme, today's snippet comes from a similar exercise, retelling one of the traditional fables from different points of view. So, here's part 1 of my version of the Tortoise and the Hare.]

“Come on, Tommie, or all the girls with be snapped up,” said Harold Racer as he checked his appearance in the mirror and headed for the door. He was really looking forward to the Summer Ball. “I’ll get the car.”

“No, don't wait for me, I’m taking the Land Rover,” said his brother Tommie, who wasn’t going to get left behind again when Harold got off with the Carnival Queen like he did last year.

“Suit yourself — but you’re going to miss out,” and with a roar of the powerful V8 engine, Harold was off down the lane leaving behind a cloud of smoke. Tommie sighed. He checked that his boots were in the back of the vehicle, then jumped in the front and started off after his brother.

Just before he reached the cricket field, he saw red lights blinking in the distance, They were reflecting off the deep pool of water blocking the lane - a pool that was gently lapping over the sills of a stalled Ferrari. Harold was standing besides the car, water seeping up the legs of his DJ trousers. He was talking into his mobile phone and glared at Tommie as he slowed down.

“AA’s on their way, but it could be a while,” he snarled.

"I'll give your love to the Carnival Queen bro, shall I?" Tommie said as he waved to his brother and inched his way through the water.