LFT1

Hi, Did you know there is a story shop in Rotherham? -A what? A Story Shop. A place where stories are created and enjoyed. In fact there are lots of opportunities for you to get involved happening right now. -Now? Well, next week actually. The story shop is a creative space for families to come and take part in lots of free workshops, making things, acting out.. -Not acting up? ...making models, stop motion animations all sorts really. Every activity revolves around the opportunity for the children to develop their own stories, poems, tales which they create then share. -Why are you telling me? Good question. Two reasons. 1) As a person interested in writing I thought you might be interested in finding out about the opportunities to get involved as a mentor / volunteer. 2) You might know some young people aged 5 - 18 that would like to attend the free sessions over the school holidays. - Where can I find out more? At the following web site http://www.inspirerotherham.org/the-pop-up-story-shop or check out the facebook page http://www.facebook.com/popupstoryshop.rotherham. - Sounds great - I'll check it out, get some free training and get involved.

Free workshops from Monday 18th February in Rotherham. All welcome. x Please see link below for festival details. http://www.inspirerotherham.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/Brochure-for-half-term-story-fest.pdf Volunteers, artists and writers wanted for future activities at the Story Shop. Please contact info@inspirerotherham.org.uk for more details.

Three really good stories. I'll have a good mull and come back to you soon. ---------- Post added 05-12-2012 at 13:29 ---------- Well, a good trio of stories to bring closure to the competition. Mantaspook: I loved the idea that the closure was achieved by the old lady, as light as a bird, through her interaction with her reincarnated son. I good tale that kept me rereading. Hazel: A real dilemma for a mother that has struggled to allow her son to live as fulfilled a life as possible. You conveyed the image of someone that had lived for one of her sons, to the omission of her own life and possibly to the relationship between her and her other two children. They both moved as far away as possible to develop their independent lives. They are now offering to support their mother as she now requires help. Interesting that until halfway through we assume that the woman has only one son as she says 'My son' at the outset - not one of my sons. Rather than closure on one relationship, this looks to me like the beginning of building new relationships with the other two sons...... maybe the next tale? Ron Blanco: I like the therapeutic idea of writing to self. And this is not evident until a fair way through the story, leading to a reread on completion. I do wonder whether, although the letter was written to allow closure, the outcome might just be denial of personal responsibility and transference of blame onto Mum. Three good stories that were a pleasure to read. It is a tough decision but based upon the theme of closure, I think that the winner of the November 2012 competition is Mantaspook. Congratulations to all participants and I would personally like to thank all the competition entrants over the past years for their creativity and entertainment. Lytisha

Wow, a big thank you to Lady Agatha for selecting my story as the winner for Septembers Magpie theme. It is the first time I've won, so I am quite chuffed. I must say that I did enjoy both the other stories too. De Batz: I think there are far too many of us 'rational atheists' out there that would definitely not call ourselves superstitious, but somehow Magpies require a different response ... Then there is the whole - how do we correctly address the Magpies in question, not wishing to cause offence or presume gender bias... but that is another story. Desprit Dan: You do not seem to suffer the 'how to address a magpie' conundrum, you are on first name terms with yours! I love the idea that there are several more stories to come from Uncle Andrew about Algernon. Thinking cap on now for theme.

Three for a Girl We were out walking the dogs. The day was blustery and the gusts threw us into one another, laughing. Bounty and Popsie ran around snuffling, jostling and chasing leaves in their delight with the riverside walk, and with one another. They recognised each other as good companions. Amazing really. Would have been so awful if they hadn’t. Jean and I would never have met, never have got into the habit of meeting up and walking together at walkie time and I would never have plucked up the courage or had the opportunity to suggest a dog free outing one evening. But, they did, we did, I did and now we have been together for a year. Imagine, in three hours time we’ll be having the three month scan. Hard to comprehend that inside Jean is a real little person growing. One that will change my priorities, forever. Looking into her face I am suddenly absolutely positive that I know. “It’s a girl. I am sure of it. We’re having a baby girl”. I had no idea why I was so sure, I just knew. “You daft git, you’re just counting magpies!” I had no idea what she was talking about. Seeing my confusion Jean turned me round and pointed into the oak tree. Three striking birds, black with white waist bands and iridescent flashes at their sides, were watching us keenly. Still, I didn’t get it. “Three for a girl” said Jean, as if that explained it all. I smiled to humour her. Just another of her funny little saying that I had no clue about. Six months later our beautiful daughter was born. It was the most amazing experience to see your child emerge into the world. It changed my world. As soon as she was out she looked up at us with her shiny black eyes. “Maggie, this is our Maggie.” said Jean. “You were right, the magpies told you. You understood, even though you have no idea about the rhyme. I hope our daughter inherits your intuitive connection with the animal kingdom. Who knows who she’ll meet when she is out walking her dog in the future.” “Er, hold up love. This is my little girl we are talking about. What makes you think I’d let her have a dog? Have some random thieving bloke chatting her up? No. She wants a pet, she gets a goldfish. At home, where I can keep an eye on her. No messing. My Maggie will be her Daddy’s girl, and that is that.”

Thanks to De Batz and Ron Blanco for the encouraging comments and congratulations to Tallyman.

I Hope George is OK. It is a lovely sunny day. Always makes me feel good, seeing the sun. I’m not sure when I last saw a day as fine as this. I should tell everyone. “Nurse, nurse!” where is everyone when you want them? I want them to see the sun and be happy. “Nurse!” Strange. They usually come when I call. Never mind, I’ll wake George in the next bed. He could really do with cheering up. Made no end of noises in the night. Was it last night or was it this morning? I’m not sure, but I know I heard it. Whenever it was he’d feel so much better if he saw the sun was out. I’ll get myself out of this bed and draw his curtains. Not sure why they’ve curtains all around him. Can’t see anything from my bed, except the window, because of that blasted curtain. Maybe George had a turn and they had to hide him from us. They do that you know. Think it means no-one knows what’s going on. As if a flimsy worn and torn piece of sheeting is going to hide the noise, dampen the pain, or stop the smell of leaked urine spreading across the ward. Do they think we’re all stupid? Who is that needs their head looking at, the ones that hear, smell and feel or the ones that draw the curtains thinking that all is hidden? Exactly. Bleeding doctors, what do they know about anything? Right let’s get moving. Oh, there’re plastic tubes everywhere. What’s that all about? I don’t remember them. Must be some new fangled medicine they’ve got me on. I’ll just pull it with me. Aaaaaarrrh! Wasn’t expecting that. Bloody great needle poking out of my arm. Where is that nurse. If he’d just come and open the curtain I wouldn’t need to get up. I’ll press the buzzer. Where is it now? I could’ve sworn it was just by my left arm. Have I knocked it off? I’ll just pop my head over the side of the bed and have a shifty. Ah, look, the sun’s out. Lovely. Always cheers me up to see the sun. Brightens the day no end. “Nurse, nurse?” I’ll show the nurse. He could do with cheering up. Last time I saw him he was looking really bothered. Blood all over him and he had quite a sweat on. In fact they both did. Keith and the foreign woman. I can’t get the hang of her name. She had a worried face too. Must have had a difficult customer to have both of them with their knickers in a twist. Smells like someone’s had an accident. Awful shame, to lose your dignity like that. They leave you like that for ages sometimes. Even once they clean you up there’s still the smell in the air. Everyone can smell it. I hope George is OK. They must’ve pulled the curtains around him because I can’t see anything but out this window.

Well done Lady Agatha. Another great bunch of stories. I do enjoy reading them every month.

Coming Clean I almost managed it. I thought, just five more minutes and I’m home and dry. As soon as I registered the words, I realised the game was up. I wasn’t going to get away with it. That left two options. Construct a tissue of lies to cover my tracks or come clean. It only took a split second to decide. The stakes were too high. If I was found out, my world would come crashing down around my ears. Life would cease to exist in the format that I so wanted. I had to cover my tracks. So, think. Make a list. 1) Witnesses. Who could know? Good start. 2) Albi. Where / who would cover? No, not who – that requires implicating others and would open weaknesses in the strategy. Right, where and why. Must be plausible. 3) Umm. Oh yes, cover your actions. Hmmn. List seems to be complete. Now I need to address it. Ok, firstly witnesses. So, who could have seen me? I stopped in the garage on the way there. That means George saw me. He wouldn’t think anything odd though, it’s Thursday and I usually fill up before the weekend. Did I buy anything else, anything remarkable? No, just some chewing gum. That is also a regular purchase so nothing out of the ordinary. Secondly alibi. Right, so as George saw me I had to be headed somewhere north of the city centre. Hmm. I’ll come back to that. Thirdly. Cover actions. So, if no-one knows where I’ve been, what I’ve done, does that mean it didn’t happen? If a tree falls in the forest…… Maybe I never did it. If I can convince myself it was not me, that I couldn’t have been there because I was … checking out that new gym. No, not the gym. They’ll have cctv and the receptionist would remember a new client. Maybe. Library? Cctv unlikely to be working. Lots of people pop in and out all the time without checking anything out. Hang on, I’ve overdue library books beside the bed. Why didn’t I renew them, even if I’d forgotten to return them? Library is no good. Got it. TK Maxx. I go there all the time. It’s full of people coming and going. No-one would know who had been. I often come out with nothing after an hour or so. Perfect. So, I spent the afternoon in TK Maxx after filling the car up. I got back around 4.45. That’s what I did. No one saw the tree fall. Let’s see now, he’ll be home in 15 minutes. What shall I be doing? Snoozing. That’ll give me time to give hazy answers until I’ve completed my internal brain washing. Thursday afternoon at TK Maxx. Nothing bought. Tried on loads of expensive outfits. Right, I’m prepared. “Hello Hun, had a good day?” “Uh, sorry I was just dropping off.” “No problem. I’ll jump in the shower and we can have a chat later.” “Uh Dave, before you go I need to tell you something. I wasn’t in TK Maxx today. I was at the hospital. I’ve had a scan. I’ve lost the baby”

Difficult Conversation It seemed such a friendly place. The sun shone through the hazy wintered trees spreading beams of light through the curtained windows. The living room was homely, the chintzy sofas covered with soft fleecy throws and more than a handful of scatter cushions. The last thing I expected to see, as I sat watching the dust motes dancing to the Chopin emanating from the classical upright at which my brother sat under the kindly eye of Mrs Eaves, was the arrival of Death. I don’t mean I died, or at least I didn’t think I had at that moment. Not your first thought at the age of 14. I mean the appearance of the classical apparition. The scythe holding, black shrouded, sunken headed, bony fingured creature. Naturally my first thought was that I’d drifted off to some macabre day dream land, but the cold sensation which chilled me to the bone and the clearly visible raised hairs on the back of my arms lent credence to the reality. I went to turn my head away, to see how my bro’ & Mrs Eaves had reacted, but the motion of the excessively long finger bones stopped me and I found I could not tear my eyes from the hooded head. Such a bizarre physical feeling of being held in position by a dark nothingness, by an absence. Without consciously audibly hearing any words I was aware of the voice in my head. The voice of Death. It was a surprisingly pleasant tone. A mellifluous baritone, easy to listen to. The content of the speech was non-negotiable. It was not a conversation. The content was hard to hear. “Before this day is out, one of you will be mine. You choose which one.” I blinked, that could not be. I must’ve made a peculiar sound as suddenly both Mrs Eaves and my bro’ were stood over, looking down at me. “What’s the matter Dear?” “What’s up? You look weird.” I pointed to where Death had been, except all that was visible was the dust motes in the late winter sunrays peeping through the curtains. What could I do? How do you introduce the topic of the imminent death of one of the three of you to your baby Bro’ and a kindly middle aged piano teacher? Lft

Movements in Jaipur. We made it to Jaipur Station just as the movement of people began. A huge movement of people, the like I had never experienced anywhere before. But then I’d never been caught in a political rally / riot in India before. The mixture of emotions that comes from being a first class ticket holder on the Indian Railway system is complex. There is the guilt that you shouldn’t be thinking of yourself as better than others, that just because you are fortunate enough to be able to afford it, doesn’t make it right that you have these privileges. This is countered by the culture shock and physical discomfort that you are unaccustomed to in the other travel classes. The self-acknowledgement that, even on top form, you are less resilient than the average healthy person is tempered by staring at the sea of faces of people clearly significantly more disabled than you that are managing fine, because they have no option. So, what should I do? I am tired, I am hungry. My blood sugar is low, my head aching from the constant sun despite the wide brimmed hat. I am snappy. I have no food other than the one dry digestive biscuit which I have hidden from him. I leave him at the door of the first class ladies waiting room with my big hat and I head in for a shower, surreptitiously savouring the biscuit. After the shower I feel better. My head has stopped throbbing and my only concern is to find something clean to drink and some food to rebalance my mood. With the hope of dhal and chapattis in the near future I head out of the ladies waiting room to find him surrounded by several hundred people. Well, men. Young and old, skinny and skinnier. A breakaway group from the political rally we had inadvertently wandered too close to. They were smiling. He was smiling. I was hungry and the sight of all the people blocking any chance of reaching food was not having a positive effect on my mood. “Why is that man wearing my hat?” I squarked indignantly. “Just smile and nod” said he, smiling and nodding. “You can get another, it is not important. Just smile” came through the gritted teeth next to me. I realised that the best course of action was acceptance, but I was tired and hungry and that does not bring out the best in me. Or the rational. Or the self preservation. I lost it. I demanded my hat back. I shouted, gesticulated and my hat was returned. Promptly, with apologies by the smiling mass of men. “Thank you” I managed to the 400 strong, curious crowd. Turning aside I insisted to him that it was time for us to go. He, still smiling broadly and waving to the men who were by now moving as one in a slow stream of humanity past the doorway, hissed that really the only way forward was for both of us to go out the back door, onto the train which had just drawn up. No matter the destination. I was persuaded of the prudence of this manoeuvre by the magical words ‘buffet car’ which slid passed. So, we moved on from Jaipur.

What a lovely poem.

I had to think clearly. I knew what I was doing wasn’t rational, but seemed like the only logical thing to do. Only I wasn’t convinced that logical was an ability I had in the current circumstance. Stop. Think! OK. I had brought this mess to the very place I had been trying to keep it away from. It was my fault. The ******** were after me. I knew that. Not my family. Not my mum. I should never have come here. 9 months I kept away. Allowed myself to become convinced it would be fine. They would have lost interest, found another target for their viscous games. I should have known. Why me? I had no idea but now was not the time to be philosophising. They were trying to break into the house. I could hear them, this was real, not my paranoia, not my imagination. Real. Where were the blues and twos when you wanted them? There often enough when you didn’t. If it had just been me I’d go out, face them down. Let them do their worst. They had already destroyed my life. Taken my job, home, confidence and my dog. That hurts, raw pain that makes me angry. What had that poor dog done to them? That’s it, I’m going out there. I know there are around 20 of them and I don’t stand a chance, but I can’t. They’ve got no morals. What’ll they do to my Mum one they’ve finished with me? I can’t even think about that. Stupid,stupid me. Why did I come to Mum’s? Just lead them here, Now we’re trapped. I can see on her face she is scared. Scared not for herself, though she should be with these monsters, but for me. How can I protect her now? What is for the best? Offer myself up to them or wait for the police to arrive. As soon as I called 999 I knew I was condemned. You don’t grass. Ever. They may have no morals this bunch of evil scum, but that doesn’t mean I am happy about breaking mine. I’ve never grassed. Never. Now it was me rang the plods and they will know that. I can’t come back, assuming I escape alive, but what about Mum? If I get out of town will they still do her, attack her in the house? Am I leaving her exposed, vulnerable, alone? Should I stay or is that inviting more trouble to the house. They are not giving up. It’s been over 2 years now and I’ve been out of town for 9 months. They have not forgotten. I have to get out of the house, away from Mum. Lure them away. I have to make a run for it. I have to leave Mum as soon as I hear the sirens and run. I’ve got me tools, I won’t go down alone. What can I do after that? How do I protect Mum then? Why did I even think I could come and visit, help out with the decorating, be a good son when I knew this could happen.

Awakenings I became aware of the world in that unreal way that occurs prior to waking from a deep sleep. Noises, indistinct at first but rapidly sharpening to discernable sounds, voices, activities. Followed explosively in my consciousness by nosmic input and light. The first smell was me. My sweat, both stale and fresh, as if I’d been sweating on and off during the unconscious period and the odour was trapped in the fabric surrounding me. The second was dusty with a sharp overtone of fish. My stomach turned over with disgust. The light I could see through my closed eye lids was in a band. A stream from my left side at about 30 degrees from my head and ran down, across my body and beyond. I could feel the heat from the light, but instead of warming me, it made me aware that the areas in the shade were chilled. Before opening my eyes I tried to put everything together. The noises came from all directions. A low tone drone, distant, but definitely from above. Perhaps a prop plane? Below me muffled voices, low tones again and the clumping as of leather on wood at irregular intervals. To the right more sounds. A squeaking and muffled groans. No, not groans, more grunts. Like someone putting a lot of concentration in to a repeated action. It seemed to occur in spurts. Sometimes slower, sometimes faster and accelerating. Then, pausing before beginning again. I returned my ears to the other side, slightly behind my head. This sound seemed to be getting closer and more squeaky. There was an occasional ‘tink’ noise and a lot of scuffling. I knew somehow that I should be concentrating on that sound, the approaching one. Anything coming closer has to be more disturbing than distant noise but I just couldn’t seem to focus on it. The grunts were distracting me. I struggled to place the sounds through the haze and throbbing that had established itself in my head. I should know what it is. It just wouldn’t come to the surface of my consciousness. I was exhausted. My body ached all over and the pain in my head was ratcheting up by the moment. What had happened to me? How had I arrived in this state and where was I? Suddenly all attempts at putting it together were abruptly halted by a sharp blow to the stomach. My eyes flew open at the same time as the light flooded in, blinding me temporarily. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Uncle John, happy birthday to you! Did you have a good party last night, Uncle John? Mum and Dad are still in bed. You must have stayed up really late. Granddad said you were all in a state. What does that mean? We made you some breakfast. Granddad helped. He said you would love to have kippers for your special birthday breakfast so we both made them and here you are!” Ah yes, stopping at George’s after my 40th. The joyous sounds of suburbia. Lft1

Thanks Hazel, Sounds like you've given these three quite a bit of charater. Remids me of the bus I used to get home as a student, was a stop near the dance hall and I think it was Tuesdays they all got on around 10pm chattering away having had a great evening dancing.