I’m at Center Stage having a chat with author Mick Rose

Tags

anthology, blog post, Books, Center Stage, chat, crime writer, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Interview, Mick Rose, Newsfeed, poetry, short stories

 

 

 

I’m delighted and honoured to be at author Mick Rose s Center Stage. Thank you very much, Mick, for all your hard work. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat. 🙂

Here’s the link :

https://centerstagewithmickrose.weebly.com/home/category/amazon-author-sebnem-e-sanders-ripples-on-the-pond?fbclid=IwAR3C6J0KqV3n8-ImEOAXwHdYX4pq0XPYHWjg_2Z3Xqta2o6_nL6oMhIQmPQ

 

Thank you very much for reading. 🙂

 

 

Guest Post at author Kathryn Gauci’s Blog

Tags

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar, Asli Erdogan, Ayse Kulin, Booker Prize Longlist, Ece Temelkuran, Elif Batuman, Elif Shafak, English Translations, Nazım Hikmet, Nobel Laurate, Orange Prize Longlist, Orhan Pamuk, Orhan Veli, Pulitzer Prize Finalist, Sabahattin Ali, Turkish Literature, Turkish Poetry, Written in English, Yasar Kemal

I’m honoured to be at author Kathryn Gauci’s Blog where we talk about Turkish Literature at her Literary World series. I apologize in advance for any mishaps as  at the moment I only have my phone and no Internet on my computer.

Here’s the link: https://www.kathryngauci.com/blog-84-23-06-2019-a-literary-world-an-interview-with-sebnem-e-sanders/

Bibliophile, Word-Lover & iPhone photographer Douglas Cronk

Tags

amreading, amwriting, art-lover, Bibliophile, blog post, Center Stage by Mick Rose, Facebook, Flash Fiction, Interview, Literature, photographer, poetry, Read or Die, Word-lover

 

Below is the link to an entertaining Blog Post by fellow author, Mick Rose at Center Stage where he has interviewed Douglas Cronk, whose shares on Facebook bring writers, poets, and readers together on his profile page and at his literary group, Read or Die

Not only does Douglas Cronk share the written word from all over the world, but he also posts amazing shots of Florida sunrises and artworks which brighten up his pages.

Blessings and cheers to Douglas Cronk, the Patron Saint of Literature and Arts.

Thanks for reading. 🙂

The link:

https://centerstagewithmickrose.weebly.com/home/bibliophile-word-lover-iphone-photographer-douglas-cronk

 

            

Florida Sunrise by Douglas Cronk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Love is Forever by Ron A. Sewell

Tags

accident, birth, death, eternity, Flash Fiction, grief, hope, life, loss, love, scribblers, the beginning, the end, Writing Prompts, Year-end Competition

This weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top two stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/1157/flash-fiction-december-20th-results

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

Love is Forever by Ron A. Sewell

 

Marc Chagall, Song of Songs III

 

Nervous, Rachel clutched her flowers tight to her body. Her face glowed as she stepped with dignity through the doors into the church. From the stained glass windows, a rainbow of colour lit her white bouquet.

When she arrived at David’s side, she gave her bouquet to her father. Together, she and David emanated happiness. Their marriage had been inescapable from the time they first met. They were inseparable. Their love for one another radiated like the sun warming the earth.

Before their wedding day, they asked the vicar not to include the words ‘until death do us part.’ When asked why both replied, “We’re soul-mates. We know true love lives on even when these frail bodies turn to dust.”

At their reception venue, the room vibrated with talk as children ran between the tables. When Rachel and David arrived, clapping spread around the room. There was the scraping of chairs as guests stood and clapped even louder. Hand in hand, the perfect couple made their way to the head table. They sat in front of a bouquet of white roses. After a few moments, the toastmaster rose from his chair and everyone else sat down.

As their guests prepared to leave, the newly weds made tracks through a blizzard of confetti to their car. With a quick wave, they drove towards the airport.

Sliding on a rain-soaked surface, the HGV jack-knifed and slammed into their car. The impact appeared to take forever. As the car crumpled, lights swirled, rose and fell and the din of the tearing metal roared in their ears. The seatbelt tugged Rachel’s chest and the airbag struck her face. When everything stopped, a strange silence cloaked her.

Sirens screamed, came close and stopped. Her right hand reached out for David, she could not find him. Harsh noises filled her ears. People talked as if she were no longer there. Pain kept her brain active and then everything went white.

***
Rachel lay in the curtained cubical, her eyes staring at the tiled ceiling. From somewhere she heard crying. A nurse inserted a drip and fitted an oxygen mask.

Then warmth of David’s hand gave her strength. Side by side, they stood in the background and watched the medical team at work.
The doctor turned to Rachel’s parents. “We can save the child but there is nothing more we can do for your daughter.” Words constructed of simple letters cut through her parents’ grief.

David squeezed her hand. “Our baby will be fine.”

Her eyes met his. “We were so happy. Why?” She kissed his cheek. “It was our time but wherever we go from here, we go together.”

With tears in his eyes, Rachel’s father signed the proffered forms. A nurse guided the trolley while another controlled the life support machine. In seconds, Rachel disappeared through the swing doors.

Twenty minutes elapsed before the surgeon appeared. “Not exactly protocol but would you like to say goodbye to Rachel and hello to your granddaughter.”

Rachel’s dad slipped his arm around his wife’s waist as they entered the operating theatre.

Covered in a green plastic sheet, they both sobbed for their sleeping daughter. Her father nodded to the doctor who switched off the life support.

Her mother shuffled to the nearby incubator and sobbed even more as she remembered Rachel’s birth.

“She beautiful,” said the nurse.

Mum and dad watched as tiny fingers clenched and unclenched. Free of the womb her legs kicked.

She glanced at the nurse. “She’s my granddaughter. I’ll never forget Rachel but she’s at peace and she’s given me the greatest gift she ever could.”

“Will you call her Rachel?” asked the nurse.

“No. There’s only one Rachel.” She turned to her husband. “What will we call her?”

“Lucy. It’s lucky spelt badly.”

Rachel grasped David’s hand as they strolled along a leaf-covered lane. “Death has not parted us. Our future’s where no clouds block the warmth of the sun. A place where one soul can whisper to another. Where togetherness means forever. This is not the end but another beginning.”

 

 

Ron A. Sewell  is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers.

 

Short Bio:

Ron Sewell is a no nonsense type of person, fool around with someone else but not with him. He does not suffer fools, at all. What you see is what you get. He writes Adult boy’s own tales as well as shorts. He regularly contributes to Scribblers flash fiction and many of his short stories are published. His novels focus on his experience and travels while a member of the Royal Navy. Hence, it is an old-fashioned, carefully constructed piece of adventure with the right dose of suspense and unexpected twists.

He can be found on WordPress, Linkedin and his books are on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/Ron-Sewell/e/B007JAMCPU?ref=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000

 

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. 🙂

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – An Accident of Fate by Baccus

Tags

accident, art, disappointment, fate, Flash Fiction, scribblers, sports, talent, tennis, the beginning, the end, Writing Prompts

This weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top two stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/1157/flash-fiction-december-20th-results

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

 

An Accident of Fate by Baccus

 

 

Sun Serve, 1976,  LeRoy Neiman

 

Karl started to play tennis seriously when he was twelve. It was then that the hobby evolved into an ambition: Wimbledon, the Davis Cup, the Australian Open. He studied, took lessons, and he practiced and he practiced. As the years passed, his routine became all-consuming and his skills spectacular. He grew tall, straight and muscular, won many Junior Tournaments, and attracted a top tennis coach. At nineteen, Karl entered the professional circuit and was widely tipped as a future champion. The ultimate dream was within his reach.

Then the accident happened.

Karl couldn’t recall it, but was told that a drunken motorist swerved out of control, hitting him as he walked back home from a gym session. He woke in hospital with multiple injuries and a reconstructed lower leg. He would never play tennis again. The doctor said it might be months before he was back to full health and able to walk.

“I don’t want to live,” Karl screamed at his mother, sitting beside his hospital bed with tears streaking her face.

“You will, Karl. You will. Give it time.”

“I gave it eight years of my life, every minute of every day. Now it’s all gone. The dream is dead. Destroyed by some drunken moron who’s ruined my life as well as his own. He can rot in prison. I’m not rotting though. Not here, for months, learning to walk again like a baby.”

The accident had not only crushed Karl, but his entire family, his friends, his coach, and a large number of supporters. Young, talented and good looking, Karl had his fair share of girl fans who were in awe of him. Not now. Now he was broken – scarred and misshapen – with nothing to look forward to.

His father had built a cabinet for Karl’s awards, with plenty of space at the top to accommodate a collection of Grand Slam trophies. Karl’s throat almost closed when he thought of it. The physical pain was bearable. The emotional pain, the disappointment, was like that drunk’s car rolling over him time and time and time again.

It was worse each day he woke. They gave him tablets to help him sleep, but insomnia was better than waking up and realising every morning that his life had come to an end. He was dead, but he kept breathing and he kept waking to this … overwhelming grief.

“Try the physiotherapy, Karl, please,” his mother begged, and her pain rolled over him like that car, no, like a steamroller.

For her, he would try. One more week of misery. Then he would put a stop to it. Then he would permit himself that final kindness.

~~~

While he expected the exercise and massage sessions, Karl had not anticipated a middle-aged woman turning up with a sketch pad and set of pencils.

“You going to draw me?”

“No, Karl. You’re going to draw, anything you like, but we need to keep your hands and your brain busy. It could have been knitting or basket weaving, but your mother said you were good at drawing as a child. I’m a therapist and an artist, so I can teach you if you need any help.”

Karl recalled sketching when he was much younger, but not whether he had been good at it. He stopped years ago to devote every spare moment to tennis. Now, when he was not furious or in agony, he was bored out of his skull, so he accepted the sketch pad with thanks, and settled against the pillows wondering what the hell to draw.

One of the nurses had eyes too wide apart and a gap between her front teeth. The combination could never be described as pretty, but it was striking. He decided to draw her from memory, with a bit of imagination thrown in. He didn’t want a photographic image, but something unique that only the pencils could produce.

Hours later, his evening meal arrived. The gap-toothed nurse also appeared with his medication, so he quickly closed the sketch pad.

Next day, the middle-aged woman called by to check if he had drawn anything.

“Let me see it then.”

Karl shyly handed over the pad, opened to the first page.

“Oh dear Lord.” The therapist stared at the drawing.

Horrified, Karl saw the tears well up in her eyes.

“What’s wrong? I was just messing about.”

“Karl, in all my years I have never seen talent like this. It’s brilliant. How could you even imagine this. I recognise the person, but you have taken her face and her soul, and set them in a world where she is the … I don’t know … the queen. I don’t even understand what I’m looking at, but there is no one else on Earth who could have created this.”

“The next one isn’t so good.”

Turning the page, the therapists face paled. She stood in complete silence until Karl could bear it no longer.

“What?”

“I don’t know what to-“ her voice broke, “say.”

He watched tears spill from her eyes, and he felt completely confused. “There’s one more.”

She turned the page, and after a moment, a smile broke out like sunrise.

“Karl, as far as I know, and I know a great deal on the subject, you are one of the most natural and original artists I have ever seen. You may not go far. You may never be recognised by those who count, but only if they are fools. I’m not a fortune teller, but I predict these three sketches will be worth a fortune one day. Meanwhile, you need to start producing a portfolio for the Royal College of Art.”

 

Baccus is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers.

Short Bio:

Baccus is a demi-god who cannot spell, and the playground for a poet and writer of both fiction and non-fiction. I have tended to concentrate on novels rather than short stories, so it is always with astonishment and pleasure when I manage to write a short story that other people enjoy.

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. 🙂

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Story Number 1 by Matteon, M.E. Lucas

Tags

alter ego, anger management, argument, competition, confrontation, conversation, ego, Flash Fiction, inspiration, moods, muse, reflection, scribblers, the beginning, the end, weather, winning stories, year-end special

Over this weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top three stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

Here’s story Number 1 by Matteon, M.E. Lucas :

 

Just Another Conversation

 

The weather Gods are frantic with their hailstorm task. The bouncy-ball-sized ice smash downwards through the flashing clouds. It’s a surprise they don’t crash into each other. I guess that’s why they are the Gods.

D.Q. Parker-Braithwaite Jr is deep in conversation, I expect he hasn’t even noticed the prostrate pedestrians in the street below his window, hands and heads bloodied and bruised from large frozen water droplets.

‘Oh, go on then, have your say mister bossy-pantaloons-ideas-man!’ He says.

‘You can’t do that, you know you can’t,’ comes the reply.

‘Will you stop being so bossy.’

‘You’re starting it at the end!’

‘Yyyyes,’ he breathes, ‘at the end. What’s your point?’

‘What do you mean at the end exactly?’

‘You know?’

‘No! I don’t think I do.’

‘It’s a time frame thing,’ he starts to explain, ‘a reminder of what’s to come. A snap shot of action to pique the interest the reader.’

‘Well, it could be action from any decent part of the story. So, why end it before you’ve started?’

It was an honest enough question. And D.Q. has an answer, he’d researched the structure.

‘Wwwwell,’ more lengthiness, ‘you introduce all the characters at a really interesting climax.’

‘Then you’ve nowhere to go?’

‘But you have to explain how you got there.’

‘Who cares, the reader now knows what’s going to happen.’

‘The reader will care, and no, you forget that bit anyways.’

‘So, why add it, if you forget about it.’

‘No, no, you don’t completely forget, only your recent memory, it becomes ingrained into your subconscious, and then at the end of the novel all re-revealed, your head pops and thinks Woah, what the hell! I remember this now, that’s amazing! And you suddenly realise what’s happened, and how it happened, and why it happened, and who it happened to, and when—’

‘That’s a lot of happening.’

‘Yeah, that’s the best part, it all comes crashing back to the readers memory, conscious and subconscious mind collide in a planet sized imaginational vortex of—‘

‘If … you can pull it off.’

‘If I can pull it off?’

‘Yeah, if!’

‘Oh man, don’t bring me down, I had this. All meticulously planned, interweaving the back story of my MC, his family, ex-lover, current love interest, the protagonist ulterior motive, and the—‘

‘Yap, yap, yap, too much woof of back story blunders. Action! That’s what you need, action, more action, platefuls of … restaurants full of … shopping malls full of, no, city centres exploding with action.’

‘Literally?’

‘If it works, big bangs, shards of sugar glass, why not?’

‘I don’t have a mall in this WIP.’

‘Then put one in.’

‘Really?’

D.Q. ponders the inclusion of a high street shopping mall, the plush new finishes, free WiFi, ice-cream counter, could it work with the antagonists sweet tooth?

‘No, you plonker, I was being metaphorical. Just get with the action ASAP.’

‘Which is the end bit, at the start in this case.’

‘Umm …’

‘And! The best part is I can use a great piece of writing twice; at the start and then splice it in at the end.’

‘Copy!’

‘Splice!’

‘You really think so?’

‘Sure, dude, why the hell not?’

‘Because readers aren’t morons, some are pretty intelligent, and reading the same thing twice will feel odd, especially if you made them forget it by stuffing it into the old subconsciousness.’

He has a point, D.Q. thinks. He reaches out for his drink of half-drunk coffee in his favourite Hogwarts auto-stirring magic mug. He takes a long gulp of cold coffee until his cheeks are full, swallows, and gasps for air.

‘It’ll be ok,’ he says after inhaling enough oxygen to get his brain in gear.

‘It won’t, there’ll be queries.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as, ‘… I’m having a Neo two glitching cats moment …’ or ‘… did the author write this bit twice? That’s a bit cheap …’ or ‘… I’m sure I’ve read this before, what a waste of my precious reading time …’ then they’ll close it and bin it, just paragraphs from the end. Chastising it as plagiarism!’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘Well, your it’s your decision I suppose.’

‘It is my decision, thanks, and I’ll thank you not to interfere.’

‘Interfering now, am I? Well there’s gratitude for you, interfering indeed.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah, you’re the boss and if I don’t like it then …’

‘Oh, don’t start that again.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, again, you always start with the boss nonsense.’

‘You mean the bit I started with.’

‘Yes, you started, you know, you where moaning at the start, telling me how to plan this novel, telling me I’m being bossy, when it’s you who are the bossy one, and now we’ve gone full donut back to the start-line again.’

‘Back to the beginning, huh?’

‘Yes!’

‘Like your story!’

‘Like my, no, you cheeky sod, not like my—‘

‘Yes, like your start stop end beginning twisty turny finish ending tale of repetition.’

‘Ah …’

‘You see, or rather you didn’t see it coming. And now it’s here it’s a bit of a—‘ there’s silence as D.Q. makes a movement behind his writing desk. ‘What are you doing with that large jewel encrusted dwarves sword?’

‘Changing direction.’

‘Changing what?’

‘Direction. Wait it’s too damn heavy. Ahhhh, this is a much better description.’

‘What the, where did you get that from?’

‘It’s an old one of yours, don’t you remember?’

‘Wait! Yes, let me see, of course. Ultra-pulse photon-clasp automatic firearm with omni-rotator and eyeball recog. That was a while ago. Let me just—‘

‘No! Oh, ho, ho, no you don’t, not this time. Prepare to meet your make, er, your imaginator!’

He points his weapon and the gun lets out a loud Zzzzongping, quickly followed by a ftomb!

‘Bet you didn’t see that coming did you, mate? Change in the plot, see. Little twist. Playing on the end-beginning-end-beginning-end sequence with a drop of sufficient darkness to make the reader—‘

D.Q. peers over the top of his glasses. Then stands and gazes down from his messy paper covered work surface, to the unfolding scene on the shaggy carpet.

‘Are you alright?’

There is no answer.

‘Muse?’

 

 

 

Matteon, M.E. Lucas,  is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers.

Short Bio:

Matteon AKA M.E. Lucas is a fifty-something (but not too many) architect, who attempts flash fiction and poetry on a regular basis. He began his escape into storytelling through the sci-fi comic 2000AD as a young boy, however, only wrote his first fiction five years ago following the death of his father. He has finished one novel, but seems content to keep on re-editing it!

M E Lucas Blog www.melucas.uk

 

***

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Year-end Special

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/966/flash-fiction-december-2017-results

 

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. Here’s the link to the current thread:

Flash Fiction January 2018

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/972/flash-fiction-january-2018-week

 

 

 

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Story Number 2 by Jennie Ensor

Tags

attraction, boredom, comfort zone, competition, courage, escape, Flash Fiction, love, marriage, scribblers, the beginning, the end, unhapiness, winning stories, year-end special

Over this weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top three stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

 

Here’s story Number 2 by Author Jennie Ensor:

Photo by Raymond Hui on Unsplash

 

 

The End and The Beginning

 

 

‘Carl’, Catherine murmured, gazing at the dust jacket of Volume Four of Carl O. Nystrom’s distinctly autobiographical series of novels. She could change her name to Carla, perhaps. ‘Catherine’ was such a mouthful. And everyone spelt it wrong, with an ‘K’ instead of a ‘C’ or an ‘a’ instead of the middle ‘e’.

Come on, Catherine. This Carl thing is getting out of hand. A famous author with millions of adoring fans isn’t going to interested in you.

The author talk at the South Bank was tomorrow. Should she still go? It would only feed her… infatuation. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? She sighed and went downstairs.

‘You’re looking very nice this evening.’

Catherine considered her husband’s remark while crunching into a notquitecooked potato. Tom didn’t usually comment on her appearance these days, didn’t seem to notice her at all, in fact. But any pleasure at his having praised her appearance was immediately quashed by a profound regret at Tom’s limited vocabulary.

Very nice. Was that the grand total of her husband’s feelings for her? Carl would never have used such words to a woman he loved. He would have chosen with care, sensitivity and aplomb from his vast literary hoard.

She studied the decidedly fleshy droop of her husband’s face. Carl, as she had seen in his spot on Meet The Author, had a well-toned body (from various athletic pursuits, she imagined) and wayward wavy hair that hung around his shoulders in that scrumptiously bohemian manner. Unlike Tom, Carl wouldn’t scoff ice-cream straight from the tub during ad breaks, or stop cycling to work because he was worried about getting run over.

*

Her seat was closer than she’d expected. The sight of Mr Nystrom produced a pleasurable shiver, as if someone had traced a cool fingertip along her inner thigh. There he was, not ten metres away, his oh-so-expressive face crowned with a glorious tangle of blonde hair. She longed to be even closer so she could see his eyes properly.

*

Carl was seated on a L-shaped sofa behind a coffee table. This intimate cubbyhole felt oddly surreal, as if she were stepping into his living room.

‘Hello… Carl. I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve read all your books.’

His eyes were a mesmeric blue. Blood rushed to her cheeks, leaving her legs to fend for themselves. She swayed. He sprang up, catching her arm.

‘Come sit a moment.’

She almost fell onto the sofa.

‘How would you like me to sign?’

‘Put “To Carla”’.

‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘Isn’t it?’ She felt her eyes pulled into his; the dizziness returned. ‘You’re different to how I thought you’d be.’

‘Really?’

‘Your eyes. They’re so… penetrating. And your body – I never realised how muscular you were.’ No, you can’t say that.

‘Thank you, Carla. You have a lovely body too.’ He put a hand just above her knee. If only this moment would last forever. But her time in the spotlight was ending – she hadn’t even taken a photo.

From the signing queue, a pointed cough. Carl removed his hand.

‘Do you mind if I take a photo of us?’ Catherine took her phone out of her bag. ‘Oh no. There’s no battery.’ What a dork. She’d meant to charge it at the hairdresser’s.

‘I’ll use mine,’ Carl offered, withdrawing a phone from his pocket.

Without thinking, she smiled and tilted her head towards his.

‘I’ll send it to you later. What’s your number?’

She wrote it down.

‘So, did you enjoy the interview?’

‘I didn’t think much of the questions, actually. I would have asked different ones.’

‘Like?’

Do you sleep naked at night? What do you do to arouse a woman?

‘What colour is your cat?’

‘My cat?’

‘In your house in Sweden. I thought you had one. A cat, I mean.’

‘Ah!’ His face crinkled. ‘Sheba. She’s white with a black ring on her tail. She takes advantage though.’

‘Cats do, don’t they? What’s your house like?’

‘Big, modern. Very Swedish.’

‘How lovely.’ She stood, reluctantly. ‘It was wonderful to meet you, Carl.’

‘And you, Carla.’ He stood too, leaning towards her. For a crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

*

Uncharacteristically, Tom came into the hall to meet her. ‘How did it go, love?’

‘Really well.’

‘You’ve changed your hair. You look… like you used to dress for me.’ Tom disappeared into the living room.

Catherine fled into the kitchen, then put her phone on to charge. What was she doing? Did she want her marriage to sink like a weighted corpse into the nearest river?

She was pouring two glasses of water when her phone beeped. She pounced on it.

Hello Carly, here’s your photo. Hope you enjoy the book. My fondest wishes, Carl

Thanks Carl, I am so grateful for this. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the book!

She hesitated, then added three kissing cat-face emojis.

*

For days, while snuggled under the duvet with Volume 5, or in the classroom struggling to convey the concept of irrational numbers to less-than-attentive teenagers, Catherine thought about Carl. She imagined him in his Swedish house, stroking the cat.

Inside her, a constant battle took place. She was determined to forget him, make the most of the life she had. The other half of her wanted to become engulfed by a liaison to rival any literary romance.

*

It arrived just before midnight, a week after the book event while Tom snored gently beside her. She reached over to switch off her phone, then saw the message.

Hello Carla, my apologies for this sudden interruption at such a late hour. The truth is – and I quake as I tap these words – I can’t stop thinking about you. I wish to see again, soon. Could visit me in Gothenburg? Your humble scribbler, C

The famous author wanted to see her! She sat staring at the screen, re-reading the words. Before she could change her mind, her fingers replied.

Yes, yes, yes! Oh please, yes!

 

 

Jennie Ensor is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. She is the author of  Blind Side, a psychological thriller published by Unbound.

 

www.jennieensor.com

Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/JennieEnsorAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Jennie_Ensor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jennieensor/

BLIND SIDE by Jennie Ensor
Publisher: Unbound

Paperback edition available from your local bookshop (UK only), including Waterstones, Blackwell’s, Daunt Books and independent booksellers

Amazon (paperback & e-book): https://geni.us/bldsd
Apple iBooks (e-book only)
Unbound (e-book only) https://unbound.com/books/blind-side

 

****

 

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Year-end Special

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/966/flash-fiction-december-2017-results

 

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. Here’s the link to the current thread:

Flash Fiction January 2018

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/972/flash-fiction-january-2018-week

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Story Number 3 by Toppykat

Tags

acceptance, change, competition, destination, dream, Flash Fiction, new world, plan, scribblers, the beginning, the end, tunnel, winning stories, year-end special

Over this weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top three stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

 

Here’s story Number 3 by Toppykat:

The End — The Beginning 

 

The smell of autumn but more like musky, warm, rich odors of a bonfire in the distance. I walk miles across an unfamiliar terrain. A twilight sky as black a sky I have never seen before cloaks me. In this world silence is explicit. My breathing reverberates in my ear with a periodic whistle in accompaniment. I’ve been walking for hours now, it seems. However, the theme of the landscape, unchanged. I am without my sunglasses, I am not squinting but more alive than I have ever felt before. Suddenly, my legs are Jello beneath me. My abdomen feels as though a sledge hammer collided with it. On the caked ground; facing the night sky, I am screaming. My stomach crushed. Blood is everywhere.

Startled, I sit up in bed staring into the mirror mounted on the wall before me. I am in perfect form.

I wish to stay here and never return, I whisper to myself retrieving notepad and pen off the nightstand. Noting the specifics of my dream. No change, I write. It has been the same dream occurrence for as long as I can recollect.

****

 

People like ants scurry about Grand Central main concourse in lieu of their destinations. I taste the bile in my throat as envy boils in the pit of my stomach. They have their destination in sight. I have yet to formulate a plan to reach mine.

After my parents’ sudden death, I quickly squander my fortune. The new world envisioned in my dreams will require no currency of any kind.

The dream gives me hope and promise for a new life elsewhere. It fuels my days. The end is near for the dreams are becoming more and more vivid with each occurrence. I believe, I have hope!

The homeless shelter at night – a contrast to Café Joe where I spend my days. I sit here now looking out the window at busy Park Avenue. I watch as cars drive into the gaping mouth of the avenue’s underpass. Being swallowed into its wrought iron and trestle mouth, affixed to its diagonal cement wall of a face. Its trestle mouth; slick black and paved surface of a tongue sports brilliant, white double lines down its middle. I hear folks say it is yellow.

I wear sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glares of each day of my miserable existence in this world. My monochromatic vision a birth defect. I see in shades of black, white and grey. However, I can differentiate white from black quite easily. The texture is extreme and dense identifying the blackest shades as black and the lightest shades as white. The grey are other colors in their world I can identify due to minor variations within. I can typically fudge out blues and yellows. All others are lost to me and seen as grey.

The time is soon. The moment near. End life in this world. Spin a new beginning in another is the plan. The excitement of its premise heightens my sensitivity to the glare outside. I turn away sipping my coffee. It is tasteless today. Oh! My bad! It is water and my twelfth cup. Instincts dictate more consumption is necessary today. Re-filling my glass from a now empty pitcher, I gesture to the waiter for another.

I don’t recall vacating my stool at Café Joe because I stand in the midst of oncoming traffic. Cocoon within a bubble of silence, which pops precipitously within seconds of my realization. My body hits the paved road before the underpass, hard. My vision skews. The underpass transforms to an eagle readying for flight. Brought back to reality when the pain in my abdomen registers throughout. Flesh raw to the touch as I am being propped up by a woman. She folds her sweater and places it underneath my throbbing head. A masculine voice of despair pleads to me.

“Sir, what can I do for you?”

Lifting my head, I watch as slick, thick liquid seep from my wound. I am unsure of its color for a mill-second. I ask the man before me.

“It is red? Isn’t it?”

“What is red?”

“My blood … it’s red, right?”

With a look of puzzlement and disbelief in his eyes, he responds. “Yes.”

I smile. I focus on the gaping mouth of the underpass. I am no longer on the roadway but inside my dream. My feet carry the miles along into nothingness. However, this time I witness bright red dots cloaked within fragile moths-like skirts. They are floating through the atmosphere. The warmth of this world touches my heart. I reach for my sunglasses — gone. The trousers I wear a relic of my previous life.

I feel cold, sweaty palm touches my hand. A prelude to a coarse voice like that of a chronic smoker invades the silent night. A singular baritone overture trails upward from the caked and baked earth beneath my bare feet.

“You cannot enter here in your human form? You must be as I am to reside here.”

It is male! Instinctively, I look up to the sky searching the night for its source. A tug to my trouser makes me look down to reveal. A diminutive creature no taller than a two-year old toddler. It snickers. Its head thrown all the way back. Its mouth houses a full set of sharp canines. Its head clearly the size of its body doing a balancing act. Yet it does not topple over.

On my knees, I stare back adamantly, “I must remain!”

The creature tilts its head to the right; then left. Its hollow puncture holes for eyes seem to be blinking at me in delight. A chuckle caught in my throat at its preposterousness. It walks away pensively; stops then turns around, abruptly.

“Ah! Of course! I remember you. Welcome!”

I start to my feet but there is no need. I now stand eye to eye with the diminutive creature.

 

Toppykat is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Here are links to some of her published work:

Moment is My Name
thedrabble.wordpress.com/20…/…/28/moment-is-my-name/

The Ex
thedrabble.wordpress.com/2017/09/04/the-ex/

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Year-end Special

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/966/flash-fiction-december-2017-results

 

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. Here’s the link to the current thread:

Flash Fiction January 2018

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/972/flash-fiction-january-2018-week

 

 

 

 

RIP, George Michael. :(

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W1PuJb-blp8

George Michael – Praying For Time Lyrics

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now

These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we’ll take our chances
Because god’s stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all god’s children
Crept out the back door

And it’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here 

So you scream from behind your door
Say “what’s mine is mine and not yours”
I may have too much but i’ll take my chances
Because god’s stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you

That he can’t come back
Because he has no children to come back for

It’s hard to love there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

Songwriters: MICHAEL, GEORGE

Praying For Time lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Rest in peace, Greg Lake. I’ll miss you! :(

Tags

ELP, Greg Lake, love, RIP

“Lend Your Love To Me Tonight”

Lend your love to me tonight
Don’t ask me who or what is right
I have no strength I cannot fight
Just flood my darkness with your light
I need no face I need no name
No martyr’s artificial shame
No crucifix I am not lame
And yet I ache to feel the flame
Arrest the sun and shoot the moon
The lamp of laughter dies too soon
To live reflected in a spoon
Makes it too hard to stay in tune
Believe meUnlock the door and unbar the gate
I’ll write I love you on the slate
And while St. Peter’s thieves debate
The price of time I will not wait
Or let the star blind road of fate
Confuse me
Abuse me
Misuse me

Release my soul release my eyes
A clock unwinds a flower dies
Dishonesty disqualifies
You win the race but lose the prize
A tattered cloak behind the throne
It is unseen it is not known
Behind this face I am alone
I would give everything I own
To touch you…

Just lend your love to me once more
Don’t ask me what I came back for
Just watch the moonlight cross the floor
And as your blood begins to roar
You’ll feel your senses spin and soar
You will become my meteor
Divine and universal whore
Complete me

 

 

 

 

 

“Closer To Believing”

I am closer to believing
Than I ever was before
On the crest of this elation
Must I crash upon the shore
And with the driftwood of acquaintance
Light the fire to love once more
I am wind blown…I am times

To be closer to believing
To be just a breath away
On the death of inspiration
I would buy back yesterday
But there’s no crueller illusion
There’s no sharper coin to pay
As I reach out… It slips away

From the opium of custom
To the ledges of extremes
Don’t believe it till you’ve held it
Life is seldom what it seems
But lay your heart upon the table
And in the shuffling of dreams
Remember who on earth you are

I need me
You need you
We want us

But of course you know I love you
Or what else am I here for
Only you not face to face
But side by side for evermore
And I need to be here with you
For without you what am I
Just another fool out searching
For some heaven in the sky
Take me closer to believing
Take me forward lead me on
Through collision and confusion
While there’s life beneath the sun
You are the reason I continue
So near for so long
So close yet so far away

I need me
You need you
We want us to live forever
So don’t let the curtain fall
Measure after measure
Of writing on the wall
That burns so brightly
It blinds us all

I need me
You need you
We want us to be together
On Sundays in the rain
Closer than forever
Against or with the grain
To ride the storms of love again

So be closer to believing
Though your world is torn apart
For a moment changes all things
And to end is but to start
And if your journey’s unrewarded
May your God lift up your heart
You are windblown
But you are mine

ELP Lyrics