Three little Gloucester Old Spots

Once upon a time there was a big bad wolf who wanted to find a rare breed pig for a hog roast. He set off into the forest and soon he came to a clearing and saw a pig.

Cathedrals and Galleons

She’s lying on the dry meadow grass, cloud-watching. Spiky stalks scratch her back as she thinks. Her shoulders crush the wild mint in the grass and release a sharp tang. Cumulus cathedrals tower above her. Cathedrals with new towers bursting out, like pillow lavas under the ocean.

Vicious Sid’s Revenge

Once upon a time, between the forest and the sea, there was an old crumbling stone castle. Surrounding this castle on the forest side was a moat. And in the moat lived a frog, called Arthur, and his friends. Arthur was no ordinary amphibian. He was a prince and he had been changed into a frog by a wicked old lady who 

Hyperstory

This is a new project – still work in progress. “Georgia’s Destiny” is a piece of fiction written in a way that enables you, the reader, to choose your route through the story.
http://sites.google.com/site/georgiahyperstory/

Your life in the year of a tree

 

The leaf buds were bursting on the knobbly old oak tree as I opened the card: “Congratulations, from proud new grandparents.”

Before you started school we lived outside under that tree when it was hot.  Painting “my family” smudgy pictures in the dappled shade.

So many autumn leaves – you helped sweep them up. Bonfire and fireworks, soup and toffee in your den: “Adults keep out”.

A ring tone jarred as snow settled silently on the branches and smouldering logs filled the house with a sweet smoky smell.  “Hi mum, b home from uni b4 xmas eve, xxx.”

Life’s compost heap

Rosie hesitated by the weeping cherry tree and reflected. A memento of a life cut short. The pain of losing their first baby had faded over the years and become a part of what made Rosie the person she was now. It’s as if the things that had happened to her had composted away in her head.  The tough experiences were like the egg shells and mango stones of her mental compost heap. Mixed with the mundane potato peelings of everyday life they’d eventually broken down to a rich mulch that had given her strength and confidence to blossom.

Sad Rock

It’s loud and I feel proud as I watch you play your guitar on stage. Happy and sad because I look at you and in your face I see my dad. You have his eyes. He played and wrote songs too but he died when he was only four times your age.

 

The hall throbs, the lights flash, your fast-fingered solo captivates the crowd. I’m so proud. I look at you but in your face I see your granddad. It’s sad. He would have loved to see you play. You never met him but you’ll understand one day.

Runners in the sun

Apart from a distant clatter of a train, the only sound is the breeze in the trees and my running footsteps. I’ve left behind the muted light and pleasant musty smell of the woodland track and, as I leap down from the stile into the open field, I’m startled by intense light as if emerging from a cinema in mid-afternoon. Out in the sun, I see a tall, lean runner keeping in pace with me. She’s wearing exactly the same clothes but I’m envious of how tall and lean she looks stretched out on the ground ahead.

Santa virgins

A huge, bumpy, bulging Christmas stocking awaited two year old Jacob on Christmas morning. Installing himself in the middle of his parents’ bed, he ripped open the wrappings with glee while they watched with expressions of adoring satisfaction.

Later that day, at Grandma’s house, Jacob excitedly told his big cousin, Matt, about his haul. “So what did your mum and dad give you?” enquired Matt amazed. “Nothing” was the matter-of-fact reply.  Overhearing this, Jacob’s naive parents felt as dismissed as a Christmas tree on twelfth night, but consoled themselves that they were no longer Santa virgins.

 

 

Blood and ice

 

 

“It’s alright Mary, we’ll look after you” reassures the professional on the other end of the phone line trying hard to keep her patient talking. Mary feels like someone is sitting on her chest, squeezing the air out of her. As she struggles to breathe, she feels like she has walked up four flights of stairs yet she is slumped on the bottom step barely able to hold onto the phone in her clammy hand. As pale as the Berber carpet, Mary feels guilty at making a fuss, and all she can think, as the nice lady keeps talking in her ear, is I mustn’t be sick here.