Whispers and Wanderings

This short story was my latest piece of “homework” for The Chorley Creative Writing Collective. I didn’t make it to the meeting to share it with the group, so I thought I’d share it with you instead. The brief given was to "write a story about your first experience of an illicit substance.” Mine began as a memory of my first puff on a cigarette, but as the words came, it grew into something else - a small coming-of-age tale, full of awkwardness, rebellion, and bad hair. As clichéd as the following narative may be, I hope that it makes you smile. Researching 1981 (the backdrop for this story) took me back to the days of MTV, my first CD player, the epic Texan soap opera that was Dallas and also, who can forget the wonder of shoulder pads and stone-washed jeans! I hope you enjoy my little story. Perhaps, you'll recognise something of yourself in it, or that it will raise a wry smile? If not, please feel free to join me in rolling your eyes at my 11-year-old self! BACKCOMBED HAIR...

Barefoot in the cool August grass, my nightshirt brushing softly across the tops of my knees, I stand beneath the waxing moon, waiting for the annual Perseids display. The hands on the clock have passed the witching hour. The day is in its infancy but, other than a few ghostly grey patches where wispy clouds sit, the sky is black. Nothing happens. My neck stiffens as I crane to peer into the darkness, so I make my way to the garden swing, sit down, and recline against the metal frame. Staring at the sky, I am sure that I see flickering flashes of light behind the clouds above my head - is that the meteor shower, or just my imagination? I can’t be sure. The swing creaks as I shift, metal digging into my shoulder blades. I stand, cross to the centre of the lawn and flop down. I lie on my back, arms spread wide like I am making a snow angel. A small laugh slips out, as I imagine my neighbour looking out of the window, the glow of their room behind them, and me, the madwoman in nightclothe...

A purple bruise spreads across the sky, which had earlier shimmered blue in the warmth of the morning. A storm is brewing and Georgia watches as the leaves at the top of trees shiver in the wind. She hears the creak of the fence as it gently sways to and fro, and feels a splash of rain hit her bare shoulder. A trail of water makes a rivulet down her arm, but she does not move from her seat at the garden table. Distracted by movement, she turns her gaze to the bird table and watches as two visiting blackbirds help themselves to what remains of the seed placed there earlier in the day.  On the fence, Reggie, the local ginger tom. is also watching them closely, probably waiting for his chance to pounce.  Briefly, the sky is filled with a silver light, which is followed almost instantly, by a rumble of thunder. In a flash, Reggie leaps from the fence and, startled by the sudden movement, the blackbirds take flight, leaving Georgia alone with her thoughts. In pensive mood, she chew...

How a Faraway Tree, a Greendale bus, and a bathroom covered in talcum powder helped to shape a poem. I wrote the poem that follows this introduction, some time in the mid to late 1990s. My children were small and life was chaotic!  Days were full of school runs, after school activities, messy bedrooms, giggles and tantrums. Perhaps it wasn’t a perfect childhood - neither theirs nor mine, growing up in the 1970s - but it did have its share of wonder and of magic.  As a young girl, I lost myself in the books of Enid Blyton.  Stories such as "Come to the Fair", "The Magic Wishing Chair" and "The Faraway Tree with its ever-changing lands at the top were an escape into my imagination. Twenty-something years later, I shared these same books with my own children and watched as they created lands of their own, some borrowed from books, some created from their own imagination.  I remember finding Martin, (about 2 years old) covered in white powder. Having recreated the ...

I've been trying to write something for my creative writing group tomorrow. It’s been a manic month - work, life, or just plain procrastination means that I haven't written a single word, nor do I have any idea of what to write. The prompt is 500 words “On Awakening”, which sounds deep, but I’m torn between whether my piece should be a dream, something philosophical or introspective. In a desperate bid for inspiration (and sanity), I rifled through my old writing and found a piece from February 2019. It's tempting to tweak and recycle it... but that would be cheating. Wouldn't it?  Update ... inspiration came to me in the early hours of this morning and I have been able to add a couple of hundred words so that I take an updated version tonight. :-) IN THE WIND  Woken up in the early hours of a cold winter morning, she lay in the darkness listening to the song of storm Eric as he wound his angry way between the buildings, whirling and wailing like an angry banshee lookin...

Introduction to Introspection This poem came to me in the stillness of an early March morning in 2019. We have all experienced those long, sleepless hours when your internal voice is loudest and, in the pitch black and silence of the bedroom, a peaceful night of unbroken sleep is impossible. In the wake of a 26-year marriage ending, I found myself questioning my decision and my past actions, remembering who I once was, and wondering who I would become. Yet as the darkness began to fade, and light began to filter in through the window of my rented flat, so too did a shift in my perspective. Introspection traces the journey from my quiet unrest to the simple, surprising realisation of a new dawn. INTROSPECTION  Why am I awake at three am? Looking through the darkness, searching through the silence, for signs I'm not alone, Listening to the bad thoughts,  as they jostle out the good thoughts in my mind. Why am I awake at four o'clock? Contemplating friendships, musing on mis-j...

The following prose titled "Effing Tomatoes" has been written for my Dad, who is currently in hospital with a life changing condition. Thankfully, his condition is improving. and though he still has hurdles to overcome, he now hopes to come home soon.  My Dad is a keen gardner. He does things 'his way' which is always the 'right way' and always to glorious effect. Home grown produce and an attractive, colour filled garden for us to play in, are amongst the happier memories of the childhood that my sisters and I shared. This piece of writing began in the early, confusing, emotional time of Dad's illness. For a long time we didn't know whether we were in imminent danger of losing him.  During this time, my Dads main concern was for his "bloody tomatoes!" I found this infuriating and was resentful that this was what he worried about above all else. My sisters were equally bemused.  Powerless to help Dad in any real way however, our focus became ...