It was isolated. Very isolated. No one for miles and miles.
That was what she wanted, what she’d planned for.
And what she needed.
The house was almost on an island. Just a rickety wooden bridge led to the lakeside.
Otherwise, just water. She could hear it lapping, gently.
On the rocks below.
She unpacked her things. Not much. Who would need much here, alone?
No-one to please, no-one to dress up for.
No-one to dress for.
Just her, the house and the elements; the water, the sky and the sound of nothing much.
She breathed in the cold air. Threw her arms wide.
She was part of it.
She had all the time she wanted now, for this would be her final journey.
She would simply be swallowed up.
Into the landscape.
I’m back in Cynthia’s flat and the main characters from my very-soon-to-be-published novel are all staring at me. They don’t look happy.
“The book’s going to be out soon. Aren’t you pleased?” I say brightly.
Connor stares at the bottom of his empty wine glass then looks directly at me “We’re pleased that you’ve set the wheels in motion, so to speak.”
“Good.” I nod. “I’ll get the draft copy of the paperback around Easter.”
Connor looks around the room at his fellow characters. Cynthia nods at him.
“Well, Ms Hall, the thing is…”
Lucy interrupts. “We’re sorry,” she says, squeezing Pierre’s hand, “but we’re not really sure about the cover.” She smiles at me weakly.
“Oh?” I shake my head. “Have you any idea how long it took and how many versions of my beloved’s artwork I uploaded before we, or rather I, was happy?” I frown at them all. “I’m really pleased with it. It looks really…”
“Old-fashioned.” Gina interrupts.
I was going to say ‘retro’ actually. Like a Penguin Original.”
“But why a drawing?” Lucy says, fiddling with her long golden hair. “Why not a nice photo of all of us?”
“That’s, er, not going to be possible.” How do I tell them they don’t actually exist?
Another true-life story of an author and her characters😉
He was dressed in an orangutan suit. It must have been itchy as he scratched himself rather a lot. Or perhaps it was part of his act. We thought it was just a prank, but then we discovered he was an undercover insurance agent, tracking a gang of kleptomaniac chimpanzees.
Henry cashed in his dividends and purchased an exclusive package to an upmarket campsite deep in the African bush. He got all the gear, the khaki shirt and pants, the wide-brimmed hat and he was on his way. He knew exactly what was what. He’d read a guide book. Or at least, he’d looked at some of the pictures.
He arrived and was greeted warmly by his hosts. After the briefing, to which he paid limited attention, he decided to go for a walk, all by himself.
Caught short, he squatted by a Khaya tree. As he perched precariously, a long, sinuous tree snake with bright yellow eyes wound its way down the trunk. Clearly offended by what it saw, it opened its jaws and fastened onto Henry’s tender regions.
Henry howled. He jumped up. He ran for the camp, clutching his pants.
But the venom circulated rapidly. It spread throughout his bloodstream into the tissues and the nerves. Henry collapsed in front of his luxury tent.
Later he was flown home in a polished box made from Kanya wood. The irony would, no doubt, have been lost on the hapless Henry.
Written in response to Paula Light’sThree Things Challenge PL45 with a little nod to my own recent close encounter with a boomslang!
And for those of you old enough to remember: enjoy!
Mina comes every year to this ruined church on a windswept cliff, after the sun has set over the bleak moorland.
It might seem a strange place to remember her wedding anniversary, but to Mina and her Sisters it is special, for once they were all the Brides of Dracula.
50 word story, written in response to The Haunted Wordsmith’s ‘Main March Madness’ No. 31 – Wedding Anniversary.
This afternoon we’re packing our bags and heading off up country for a few days. This is the kind of thing we’re hoping to see, so maybe there will be animal adventure stories next week. After all, this is Africa!
In the meantime, be warned. A deluge of chapters from my work-in-progress novel for younger readers is scheduled. I hope you have the opportunity to dip in.
Is it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? The Nameless Civil Servant asks himself as he lifts his head above the parapet and surveys the monumental mess before him.
He, the Great Man of Words, the Top Negotiator, the One who Won.
He had been. Once.
Years of precepts and precedents, chalked up challenges and crumbled contrary arguments. But now none will do. Now there is no way forward and there will be no winner.
The only way is back, he thinks. He glances back over his shoulder at the long-travelled road, its twists and turns. Maybe, he thinks, maybe.
Could he create a bridge, a bridge from the lobbies of enlightenment which would cross over the wall and into the abyss? To eliminate the wrongdoers and the naysayers.
He shakes his head.
This is a new beginning. Over which he has no control.
Jerry: Repeat after me. There’s nothing under the bed.
Jules: There’s nothing under the bed.
[Pause]
Jules: But there is, I tell you.
Jerry: We looked. We looked again. There’s nothing under the bed.
Jules: Just because you can see them, it doesn’t mean they’re not there.
[Silence]
Jules: I see them all the time. I know they’re there. All over the house. Don’t you ever see, you know, something flash past, out of the corner of your eye?
[Silence]
Jules: Like ghosts maybe?
Jerry: I don’t believe in ghosts.
Jules: Okay. Maybe they’re from another dimension.
[Jerry sighs]
Jules: String theory. There was that article. Or something to do with Dark Matter.
Connor turns from the window where he has been gazing out onto the empty street. “You’re the author, Ms Hall; we’re entirely in your hands.” He fiddles with the change in his trouser pockets. “But well, we were wondering, when exactly is our book coming out?”
I stare back at him, not comprehending the situation. My gaze travels around the room. Next to me, dressed in a blue silk caftan, legs curled up underneath her on the couch, is Cynthia. She is busy examining her beautifully manicured nails. Opposite sits Lucy, long blonde hair glowing.
“It’s just that it’s been so long,” Lucy says, a little breathlessly. “I mean…” her voice trails off and Pierre, her boyfriend, who is perched on the arm of her chair, squeezes her shoulder gently.
Lucy turns to Gina who is sitting in the matching armchair next to her. I notice she is fiddling with a shiny new ring on her third finger. The light catches the bright solitaire diamond sending patterns flashing across the worn Persian rug where Asmar, Cynthia’s cat, is lounging. He dabs at the flickering light with a casual golden paw. The blaring of a televised football match filters down from the flat upstairs where Gary, Gina’s boyfriend fiancé now? must be watching.
Gina sits forward and leans towards me. “It’s not that we’re ungrateful. We’ve loved our story. It was so exciting!” She pauses for a moment. “Well, mostly.” She frowns momentarily. “It all turned out all right in the end though,” she adds, grinning. “It’s just that, I’m sorry to have to say this, but we feel like we’re in limbo.”
I look around the room at these people whom I know so well; these people with whom I’ve spent so many hours.
Connor clears his throat. “Time waits for no man… or woman.” He takes his hands out of his pockets and puffs out his chest. “I have had a second slim volume of my poetry accepted for publication since you finished our manuscript.”
I gave you an agent, I think to myself. I fiddle with the pen I’m holding and glance down to see my notebook open on my lap.
Connor darts forward and grabs it. “Oh no, Ms Hall. No more changes. It’s done. Finished. You told everyone so.”
I hold my hands up. “I know. And it is. Finished I mean.” I sigh, my hands dropping into my lap. “I’m just waiting for the artwork for the cover.”
Connor nods gravely.
At that moment there is a knock at the door.
“It’s open,” calls Cynthia.
Tony Wong, whose flat is across the hall and who is landlord to Cynthia, Gina and Lucy, smiles and enters. He pads over the rug and holds out a bowl stacked high with pale brown crackers. “Would you like a fortune cookie, Ms Hall?”
I take one and pull out the little paper message, but it’s like one of those plot-halting moments. I can’t read a single word.
A true-life story of an author and her characters 😉
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