Serendipity – and storytelling

Serendipity. Sometimes it’s all you could possibly ask for. This week I’ve had three unexpectedly inspiring experiences. Firstly, one of my fellow Crooked Cats came to the island on Monday – we visited beaches and art galleries, ate icecream on the waterfront, and spent the day talking about our writing. It’s wonderful to be in the company of another writer. That evening a parcel arrived – a paperback copy of Lauren Sapala’s book ‘The INFJ Writer’, which is full of useful exercises and helpful advice. I learned that my messy, bitsy, disorganised method of writing (which is neither pantsing nor planning, but more like patchwork) has a name. It’s called the mosaic technique. How nice is that? (Despite my best attempts at cheating, I always code out to INFJ. It’s a nuisance, but there we are.)

And then another friend gave me a wonderful thing. It’s a booklet and pack of forty ‘storytelling’ cards. I was messing around with them today, shuffling and dealing out a handful of cards, then using them to make up stories. It was just a bit of fun, until suddenly a story started to tell itself. ‘The Blanket of Stars’ is the first piece of extended writing I’ve done in over three months, and here it is. Small, and whole and perfect. And all thanks to Jennifer, Lauren and Carol. Here’s to serendipity – and to friends!

The Blanket of Stars

Once there was a king: the usual kind, strong and rich and wilful, dispensing judgement from his great carved throne and overseeing the running of his kingdom. He was not a happy man, for he was troubled with poor sleep, and nightmares. Not so many nightmares, at that, for it was not often that he slept long enough for dreams to come.

He sat on his throne, which come to think of it was rather hard and not very comfortable, and stared down at his servants and companions in the great hall. His brow was deeply furrowed, his shoulders high and tense, and he tapped one boot on the flagstones of the floor as he sat there. His chamberlain came forward, rather reluctantly, bowed and enquired after the king’s health.

The king glared at him. “I’m tired of having no sleep,” he grumbled. “I’m sick of these poor quality dreams. Fetch the Keeper of Dreams.”

The servants reported that no-one had seen the old man for a very long time, and they weren’t even sure if he was still alive.

“Of course he’s alive,” roared the king. “If he’d died someone would have told me.” This sounded quite logical, and anyway everyone was too afraid of the king to argue with him.

“Search high and low,” said the king, “from the deepest, darkest dungeon to the highest, most windswept tower and find the Keeper of Dreams. I want to sleep.”

So the king’s servants spread out through the castle. They searched from the deepest, darkest dungeon to the highest, most windswept tower, and at last they found the Keeper of Dreams where he’d been all along: in his own bed, fast asleep, with a dreaming smile upon his face.

The old man came before the king, sitting on his high throne, and he bowed. “Your Majesty is looking well,” he said.

“Never mind that,” said the king. “This is no time for platitudes. Anyway, I don’t believe I am looking well, because I haven’t slept for weeks. I need to sleep, Keeper. I want some pleasant dreams. Open your box of tricks. Make it happen.”

The Keeper of Dreams eyed the king for a moment, noting his frowning brow, the unsatisfied twist of his lips, and the distinctly red tinge of his eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the solution to your ills is the Star Blanket. If we can get you settled into bed with the Star Blanket tucked around you, you’d soon find yourself snoozing peacefully, awash with pleasant dreams.”

“Oh,” said the king wistfully. “That does sound good.” He mused for a moment, then his shoulders, which had relaxed, drew up again either side of his ears and he shouted, “Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there and find me the Star Blanket.”

So the Keeper of Dreams packed a small bag of his most essential possessions and set off into the world. He took with him a tiny casket, containing his favourite and most beloved dreams. As he walked through the streets of the city, he observed the daily lives of the king’s people, and spoke with many as he passed by. But none had heard of the Star Blanket, or knew of its whereabouts. One old, old woman gazed at him, her face creased with thousands of wrinkles, and spoke.

“You might as well ask the beasts of the fields as the people of this city,” she said. “For they are too busy and too worldly to pay any attention to something as old and well-worn as the Star Blanket.”

“That’s good advice, ma’am,” the Keeper of Dreams said, for he was nothing if not polite, and he remembered his own old mother, dead this many a long year, and treated the old lady with courtesy on behalf of his mother’s memory. He set off out of the city gates, on his way to ask the beasts if they had seen the Star Blanket, since the people of the city had been no help to him.

The old woman watched him go, her eyes bright and far-seeing in her old, old face. She smiled, and the wrinkles doubled, as she noted that the kind and charming man was not much younger than herself. “Good luck to you, my fine fellow,” she said. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again.” She closed her eyes and her head nodded upon her breast, as she fell into the quick, easy sleep of the very old.

The Keeper of Dreams got no help from the beasts of the field: cows, sheep and llamas have no use for the artefacts of dreaming. They simply lay down with the coming of darkness and the Star Blanket fell over them quite naturally so that they slept till morning, and dreamed the dreams of contented animals. Perhaps he would have more luck in the dark forest. He stumbled his way into the deepest, darkest part of the forest, tripping over tree roots and extricating himself from bramble patches, until at last he found himself faced by a fearsome looking beast, half-human and half some wild creature of the wilderness.

“Halt,” cried the beast. “I’m hungry and you’ll do for my dinner. Stand still and let me kill you.”

The Keeper of Dreams replied that he would sooner not be eaten, if possible, as he was on an urgent errand for the king. He delved into his small bag and pulled out a heel of bread. The beast seized the bread and ate it in a few bites, washing it down with water from a nearby streamlet.

“Why should I care about the king?” he said. “Once I lived in that great city of his; I was a respected member of society. But I began to have bad dreams, and then I couldn’t sleep, and at last I was so maddened by lack of it that my neighbours turned me out into the woods to die. It’s a bad season – too early in the year for fruit and grains. I’ve eaten nothing but meat for weeks. There’s not much meat on your bones, old man, but I’ll have what there is regardless. It will keep me going until tomorrow.”

He lurched towards the old man, but stumbled to a halt as the Keeper of Dreams drew out his tiny box and opened it. A warm, golden light filled the clearing.

“Oh.” The beast leaned forwards and gazed into the box. “Oh, I see.” He sank to his haunches and bowed his head, closing his eyes and falling into sleep. A little golden dust settled on his head and shoulders as he began to snore. The Keeper of Dreams patted the sleeping beast’s shoulder companionably, tucked his box back into his bag, and walked away.

On the other side of the dark forest the Keeper of Dreams spotted a young lad, watching over a flock of sheep. The sheep grazed peacefully on the green grass, a rainbow flickered into being as a shower passed across the ground, and then the sun shone again as the shepherd lad pulled a pipe out of his pocket and began to play. The old man smiled, and he felt a little of his burden lift at the joyful sound. Surely a boy so contented must know the secret of peaceful sleep and quiet dreams.

“Lad,” he cried as he started forwards. “Please help me. I am on an urgent errand for the king, who is troubled in his sleep and suffers unquiet dreams. I am seeking the Star Blanket. Please tell me you know where it is.”

“I’m not sure I can help you,” said the boy. “Each day I bring my flock in from the pasture and put them into the barn. My sister brings me food, and then I curl up with the sheep to sleep in the warm straw. Sometimes a star looks in the high window of the barn, and even though the wolf howls I know that I am safe. But I remember that when I was very young my mother would sing me to sleep, and I always had good dreams. Maybe she can help you.” And he gave the Keeper of Dreams a little bread and cheese from his satchel (for he was a good boy, and his mother had taught him to be kind to strangers) and directed him towards the mountain path that would lead him to the village in the valley below.

The Keeper opened his small box and offered it to the boy, who reached inside and pulled out an amber honey chew. This he ate with every evidence of enjoyment. The Keeper made his way across the meadow, wondering what sweet dream the young shepherd would receive when he lay down in the barn that evening.

By this time the Keeper of Dreams was very tired, and he wondered if he would ever manage to find the Star Blanket for the king, or if perhaps he was fated to walk until his legs dropped off, or his poor old heart gave out. But at last he reached the outskirts of the village, and saw a wee white cottage with a carving of leaves and flowers over the lintel. In the doorway of the house stood a woman – a very ordinary looking woman, in a peasant’s black dress and grey shawl, but her face was kind and her eyes a warm brown as she gazed at him.

“Sir, you look tired,” she said. “Will you sit awhile and take a sup of ale with me?”

The Keeper of Dreams was very pleased to take the weight off, so he dropped onto the bench beside the door and sighed as he stretched out his aching legs and sore feet. The woman brought two tankards of ale, cool and frothy, and sat beside him, sipping her drink and gazing out across the yard where a couple of chickens were hopefully pecking the ground.

“Mother, I thank you. This was just what I needed.” The Keeper of Dreams raised his tankard to the woman, who nodded but didn’t reply. For a long moment they sat there in the warm sunshine, enjoying the moment of rest, however brief. Then the Keeper of Dreams stirred and turned towards her.

“It seems to me that I met your son, up in the high pastures,” he said. “I told him I was looking for the Star Blanket, and he said that he couldn’t help me, but he remembered that when he was very young you would sing him to sleep and he had pleasant dreams. I wonder if you would mind coming with me to the city to sing to the king. He is troubled in his sleep and has unquiet dreams.”

The woman gazed at him wonderingly. “They are very ordinary songs,” she said, “and I have only a very ordinary voice. Of course, he is my son and I love him. That makes a difference.” She thought for a moment, then stood. “Wait here,” she said, and disappeared back into her cottage.

The Keeper of Dreams was content to wait. It was pleasant sitting in the sun after a mug of ale and a day of hard exercise. He may even have dropped off for a moment, but came fully alert when the woman emerged from her house, holding an old, scruffy, many-times-patched blanket. It was the faded pink of the washed out evening sky, and every square of its patchwork bore a cloth star. Some of the stars were bright and colourful, but others were faded or torn, and a few hung loose where the stitching had come undone.

The woman bundled the blanket into a bag and pulled it onto her shoulder, along with a pouch of cheese and apples. “Come on, then,” she said. “I can’t be away long, because the sheep will soon be shorn and then I need to get busy with my spinning. But my housework can wait a day or two, if the king’s in need of a sleep.”

On their first night of travelling the Keeper offered her his little box. She peeped inside, her face warmed by the golden light, but she shook her head and he closed it again. “An early start, plenty of hard work and a job well done – those will bring me rest at night. No need for any golden toy to charm my sleep.”

The two of them trudged through the great gate of the castle a couple of days later. They’d eaten all the cheese and apples along the way, and the Keeper had traded a dream for a loaf of sour bread on the second day, but they were both footsore and hungry, and very glad to have arrived. The castle kitchen was bustling with preparations for the king’s dinner, but the second cook sat them down at a table in the corner and served them soup and bread, and a fruit compote for dessert, for the ordinary people of the castle ate the same good food as the king, only that theirs was not served on silver platters or accompanied by the best Rhenish wine.

After the meal the Keeper of Dreams spoke quietly to the cook, and she allowed the woman to use her kitchen, although she insisted first on a thorough wash and a change of clothing. Luckily one of the housemaids was a similar shape to the woman, and loaned her a grey dress and white apron, and a white scarf to cover her hair. The woman set to work in the kitchen, and before long doors were opening and servants peering in to discover the source of the appetising aromas that were issuing from the oven.

At last the Keeper of Dreams brought the woman before the king. He sat as before on his high, hard throne, with a frown of bitterness on his face and his tired head on his hand. The doors opened and the Keeper strode into the hall, bringing with him a wholesome smell of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. The king sat up and breathed deeply. “What is this?” he demanded.

The woman curtseyed, and placed her items on a nearby table. She poured him a simple pottery mug of cinnamon milk posset, and offered a plateful of spiced cakes, still hot from the oven. The king took the drink, not without a slight curl of the lip at the plainness of its container, but after one sip he drained the mug and turned his attention to the cakes. He ate three. The Keeper took advantage of the king’s distraction to help himself to a cake. They were really very good.

The woman sat on the step below the throne and stretched out her legs in front of her, pulling down the housemaid’s skirts which were, truth to tell, slightly short and displayed a pair of nicely turned ankles and two neat, stockinged feet. The king gazed at the shapely ankles and munched absently on another cake. She leaned her head against the side of the throne and began to hum.

There was nothing much to the song – a low, swaying melody, a word or two and some fal-la-lals. Nothing much to listen to. Nothing to excite, or interest, or…

The king’s eyelids drooped and he let go of the pottery mug. The Keeper swooped forward and caught it before it could shatter on the flagstones. The king’s head fell forward and he began to snore. The woman stood and regarded him for a moment. The Keeper of Dreams began to speak, but she put her finger to her lips.

She turned and beckoned to the chamberlain, who was peering in through the double doors of the great hall. The chamberlain pushed the doors open and in came the king’s huge, wheeled, four-poster bed, so heavy that it took twenty footmen to manoeuvre it. They rolled it into the centre of the hall, and then the Keeper ushered the servants and retainers away.

The woman went to the throne and gently nudged the king.

“Whassam?” he muttered, his eyelids flickering. She put one hand under his elbow and encouraged him to stand. With the woman on one side, and the old man on the other, the king climbed down from the throne and lay down on the clean white sheets of the bed. The woman pulled up the eiderdown as the king turned on his side and mumbled sleepily.

Opening the bag she still carried over one shoulder, the woman pulled out the Star Blanket and draped it over the king. One hand came up and pawed at the blanket, but she took it and laid it down by his side, and tucked the blanket around him. She stroked his cheek gently and the frown cleared from his face. After a moment his breathing deepened again, and she gestured to the Keeper to precede her into the corridor.

“That was a kind thing you did,” said the Keeper. “Being as how that’s no magical object in there, but only an ordinary ratty old blanket of the kind that any peasant woman might make for her babies. Still, there was surely magic in the song, anyway.”

The woman smiled and touched the Keeper’s cheek. He leaned into the touch, feeling again the long distant warmth of his mother’s hand. “Every boy needs his mother from time to time,” she said. “And every mother knows the secret of the Blanket of Stars.”

She spoke to the chamberlain, who was hovering outside the doors to the great hall, clearly wanting to go in to his master. “I will return in the spring when my first grandchild is born. I’ll want the Star Blanket back then, and he won’t need it anymore.” She shouldered her empty bag and walked out of the castle, without a backward glance.

The Keeper stood watching after her for a few minutes. Behind him the chamberlain slipped quietly into the hall. The Keeper’s forehead bore its own frowning mark as he thought, rather slowly since he was tired after his journey. Then his face cleared and his eyes widened. Nodding to himself he walked out of the castle and down into the town.

As he crossed the marketplace the old woman was there, sitting on her doorstep, taking in the late afternoon sun. She looked at him without speaking as he sat on the doorstep beside her, and turned to look into her face. Her back was bowed and her face old, but her expression was as young as springtime and her eyes were bright. The Keeper took one of her gnarled, arthritic hands in his and rubbed it gently.

“When I was young, and new in my job, and I thought that I was soon to hold all the secrets of the dreaming world in my hands, I had a dream.” He paused and looked at her, and she smiled at him. The wrinkles on her face doubled, but her eyes were clear and shining and fixed on his face.

“I dreamed that I walked far, far from my home, until I came to a valley between two peaks. There the grass was green and the streams fresh and clear. The trees bore blossom, green leaf and fruit all together, and in among the fruit bushes deer grazed in the company of wolves, rabbits scampered between the paws of a lion, and an eagle screamed overhead but did not disturb the hens which searched for worms amongst the strawberries.”

The woman gazed at him serenely. Her smile deepened, and the wrinkles tripled, but she made no sound. She patted his hand comfortingly, and he continued.

“In this valley was a small white house with smoke coming from the chimney. And on the threshhold stood an enchantress, young in years and strong in the use of her power. She led me into her garden and fed me on the sweetest fruits. And as the sun dipped behind the mountains, I realised that her eyes were the precise colour of the sky at the moment when all the light has gone, but the first star has not yet begun to shine.”

He stopped, and for the first time looked uncertain. He looked again into the old, wise face and was drawn into two deep pools of smoky blue. He began to tremble.

She smiled, the smile of a woman who is taking pity on a man when she knows he has floundered into deep water. Despite the wrinkles, the Keeper suddenly saw a woman who, in her own mind, was as young and powerful as ever she had been. She stood and pulled him to his feet.

“Some dreams are not meant to be shared,” she said, “and others wait a lifetime within us.” She pulled his head down and brushed her lips over his. “But now you have found my garden, and you will find that the fruits are still sweet.”

***

Cards used:

The King

The Keeper of Dreams

The Enchantress

The Wild Beast

The Youngest Son

The Mother

The Star Blanket

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Nevil Shute: a Study in Impeccable Writing

RequiemForAWren

I read a lot of Nevil Shute as a youngster – growing up in New Zealand, it was natural that his books should be in the library. I enjoyed them; he writes a good yarn, with plenty of action and interesting storylines, and his characters are strong and memorable, particularly the women. But it’s decades since I last read him, and the one I’m reading now I have never read before.

Requiem for a Wren is an exemplar of Shute’s work, and in particular his skill in purveying vast amounts of background through a few terse sentences. He’s a master at providing information without the reader being at all conscious that he’s doing so.

In the first paragraph of Requiem nothing much is happening. The narrator is an airline passenger, and the plane is beginning to descend. But look at how much information he packs into the first two sentences.

There was a layer of cumulus, about seven-tenths, with tops at about five thousand feet as we came to Essenden airport; we broke out of it at two thousand and we were on the circuit downwind, with the aerodrome on our starboard wing. I sat with my eyes glued to the window looking out at Melbourne, because this was my home town and I had been away five years.

I don’t mean the obvious – cloud cover and all – but rather the great deal of information which is implied. We now know that our narrator is Australian, and that he is an airman (very likely a pilot, given the breadth and complexity of his observations). As the book was published in 1955, the ‘five years’ remark gives us a pretty big clue that he was away at war, so now we know what kind of airman he is.

[The stewardess} smiled and said quietly ‘Would you like any help down the gangway, sir?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll wait till the others are off. I’m all right if I take my time’

So… an injury or disability bad enough for him to potentially need help, but she is circumspect and he determined to be independent. That makes me think straight away about wartime injuries – and it turns out that’s exactly right. He goes on to meet the foreman from his parents’ sheep station, and discovers that there has been a death at the farm, but even then he’s more interested in the changes in the landscape since the war.

It’s only on page 12 that we begin get a sense of his injury, and this too is in typical laconic style.

Horses were still used by the boundary riders, but … my father drove all over the property in a Land Rover instead of riding on a horse as he always had when I was young. That suited me, for artificial feet are something of a handicap upon a horse. There was a great deal for me to learn about the property before I could unload some of the work from my parents, and I was keen to make a start.

Shute’s style is one I favour, with long passages of narrative interspersed with briefer dialogue and conversation. It’s somewhat out of fashion these days, when we are all being told ‘do, don’t tell’ and ‘don’t infodump’, although in Shute’s case it’s more like info-infusion, and his laid-back style suits the subject. Our protagonist is reluctant to display his disability, or any of the other ways in which war has changed him, and it becomes increasingly clear that this same reticence applies to the other characters in the novel, including the dead girl, whose story rapidly takes centre stage. So much is conveyed in these sparse, careful sentences that by the time he reaches the revelation at the bottom of page 53, it comes with a sense of inevitability. It could only have been this way.

I’m not going to tell you the story. Not all of you will want to read the book, but you can read the first few pages online. Have a look, and see whether you have anything to learn from this master of understated prose.

Before it Begins, An Article by Author Yvonne Marjot

Susan Finlay Writes

I often hear from people who want to write a book but don’t know how or where to begin. Or from people who have already written a book that’s ready for publication but don’t know how to get it published. I recently began a new blog series, Writing and Publishing Tips From Authors Around the World, to help writers.

Yvonne Marjot

The nineteenth contributor is U.K. author Yvonne Marjot and she’s here to talk about what happens after you finish writing a novel.

Before it begins, or, what to do between finishing your novel and publishing it, by Yvonne Marjot

Writing’s wonderful, isn’t it? You love the moments when time flies past your flashing fingers on the keys, and a thousand words pours out of you onto the paper, and it’s just how you thought it would be. You hate the times when getting a sentence out is like wringing blood…

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POETRY & PROSE VOTING PAGE!!

My Valentine poem ‘Sunkissed’ is number 4 here. Pop over and vote for your favourite.

POETRY & PROSE VOTING PAGE!!.

Here is my interview with Yvonne Marjot

My blog interview with Fiona McVie. Thanks, Fiona.

authorsinterviews

Y Marjot author pic Aug 2014

Name Yvonne Marjot
Age 52
Where are you from? I was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. Now I live on the Isle of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland.
A little about your self `ie your education Family life etc
Yvonne Marjot was born in England, grew up in New Zealand, and now lives on an island off the West Coast of Scotland. She has a Masters in Botany from Victoria University of Wellington, and a keen interest in the interface between the natural and human worlds. She has always made up stories and poems, and once won a case of port in a poetry competition (New Zealand Listener, May 1996). In 2012 she won the Britwriters Award for poetry, and her first volume of poetry, The Knitted Curiosity Cabinet, was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams Publishing.

She has worked in schools, libraries and…

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Indian Summer

It really has been the most gorgeous week on the beautiful Isle of Mull.

Indian summer

The leaves are falling, crisp underfoot,
and the hills shimmer in the heat.
I crave ice in my glass, breeze, shade;
my sandals are cool on my feet,
boots shoved back in the porch.
The sun’s a pendant in flaming brass,
hung on a cloth of dusty blue.
I’m melting. How long can this last?

…yeez’ll never guess… what do Crooked Cat Publishing, the Middle East, and Tobermory on the Isle of Mull have in common?…

…yeez’ll never guess… what do Crooked Cat Publishing, the Middle East, and Tobermory on the Isle of Mull have in common?….

A Musical Comedy of Errors (flash fiction prompt ‘the wrong end of the stick’)

It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t even realise the stick had two ends. They should have spelled it out better. Spelled it out. Pfft. Lol.

Let me explain. It all started at the audition for ‘Cats’. At least, the audition went pretty well. I got the part. All I had to do was make like a cat – you know, all that preening and pawing and making eyes at the Rum Tum Tugger. Well, that was no problem: Doug Airtson is dead easy on the eye. I could look at him all day long, in his skin-tight tights and his tabby-stripe stage makeup. That boy has definitely been working out.

Luckily I didn’t really need to be able to sing. It’s all kind-of tuneless yowling. I mean, I know Lord Whatsisname wrote some nice tunes for it, but us chorus types just have to hum along, you know. They didn’t really ask me to sing at the audition. That was a bit of a surprise, but after I’d got down on all fours in my skimpy leotard and arched my back and wiggled my perty kitty bottom, that seemed to be all they wanted to see. Nailed it, straight up.

The first rehearsals were a bit boring. I learned my cues straight away. No-one can accuse me of not being quick on the uptake. But when you’ve seen one bloke in tights you’ve seen ‘em all, and the Rum Tum Tugger might be a bit of a sex symbol in the script, but I can tell you for free in real life he’s a minger. Always got his hands where he shouldn’t, and frankly he could do with a wash. It’s amazing what an actor thinks he can get away with just because he has pecs to die for and can hit top C.

I got a promotion, toot sweet. Special assistant to Mr Mistoffeles. I didn’t have to do much, either. It was, like, totally not my fault that pretty little tortie kitty tripped coming off stage and broke her ankle in the lighting pit. I only meant to shake her up, after that mean comment in the dressing room about no amount of cold cream being enough to hide the signs of a common alley cat. I’ve always had faith in fate – if you act nasty, stuff will happen to you. Though fate sometimes needs a helping hand.

So, there I was in the wings, looking like butter wouldn’t melt and the director shouts ‘You! Get over here.” I look all around, like I think they mean someone else, though there’s no-one else there. Get in! Now who’s saying I can’t act? “Hold this. It’s Mr Mistoffeles’ dancing stick. You need to give it to him just before the end of the second chorus. Red end up. That’s very important, girl. Are you listening? Red end up, green end down.”

Am I listening? I was born listening! Anyway, it goes like a dream, the director says it’s perfect, he explains how on the night when Mr Mistoffeles bangs his staff on the ground a firework will shoot out the top – because he’s magic and all that. I don’t really listen – it’s all yadda yadda, and I’m too busy getting all dreamy over Mr M – he has the most gorgeous eyes underneath his cat-mask thingy. Dreamy. So I’ve got the part. I get tickets for my Mum, since it’s a big promotion, I’m not just any old yowly kit cat any longer, I’m a Cat. I’m Mr Mistoffeles assistant cat.

Opening night, and the director’s making his last minute checks. I’m in the wings holding the stick and he’s all like ‘red end up, green end down. Have you got it Kitty?’ Yes, I say, my eyes fixed on Mr M. They say he hasn’t got a girlfriend. If I play my cards right that situation might not last too much longer. The second chorus starts and I tiptoe out on my cute little kittycat feet. He holds his hand out without looking and takes the stick from me. The chorus ends and the saxophone wails out, drums are beating, cats are yowling, everybody in the audience is spell bound by the magic Mr M and he bangs his stick on the stage and all hell breaks loose. A firework shoots out the bottom of his staff, bounces off the stage and falls into the orchestra pit. Next minute there’s sparks flying up, the saxophone has gone squeaky and the audience are all screaming.

I mean to say, what a fuss. It was fine. The audience stopped having hysterics and were allowed to go out and have drinkies a bit early while it was all sorted out. The saxophonist had a wee lie down, and he was only burnt a little bit. The FX guys sorted out the stick and Mr M came back on and did it all perfectly. They wouldn’t let me be his assistant anymore, though, on account of having given him the stick green side up.

It’s not fair. One teeny weeny mistake and I’m out of a job. I should have stuck with the Rum Tum Tugger and his roaming hands. It’s all that director’s fault. He never even asked me if I was colour blind.

Saxophone

Today’s September 2014 poem-a-day. I’ve been listening to a new jazz recording a friend has given me.

The elegiac quality of saxophone
eases its way into my mind,
quietly asserting its charm,
sliding deftly into its place
in my aural memory,
as if it had never been away.

The Calgary Chessman book launch – all welcome

Ever fancied a visit to the Isle of Mull? This Saturday, 6th September would be a great time to go. Not only is the weather still warm, with the prospect of sunshine, but the local book (and fishing gear) shop, Tackle and Books, will be hosting the launch of my novel, The Calgary Chessman. 11am to 1pm. I’ll be reading excerpts, signing books and enjoying a glass of wine or two with friends and visitors alike. It’s going to be great!

Of course, if you can’t be there you can still soak up the atmosphere of Mull by buying the print or e-book version of the book. It’s available from Amazon, Smashwords and direct from the publisher, crookedcatbooks.com. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Calgary-Chessman-Yvonne-Marjot-ebook/dp/B00MLBQ6SG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409769634&sr=1-1&keywords=the+calgary+chessman

TCC first copy at Green Rooms Aug 2014

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