Category Archives: children

moment 23

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i left the house. needed to get away. on my ten speed, blue with silver. through the quiet traffic. across town. anywhere. just not there. down the path by the red brick youth club. stream running nearby. follow the stream. across the bridge over the weir. a moment to watch the water tumble and fall. a froth of white turbulence. across I went. no cycles allowed. on-wards into the park with the river running through it. i came upon my stepfather and friend. fishing. watching the bobbing of the float cause ripples on the water. enticing. i took the fishing rod, metallic blue, bottom of the range. a finger resting, watching the line. waiting. the fluorescent float bobbed. then disappeared. up again. then down. a fish biting. a hook cutting in. i wound the reel, pulling occasionally. wound him in. the line straight and taught, heavy. i pulled and wound, pulled and wound. the hook caught. up to the bank. up into the air. the fish thrashing, twisting, spinning on the line. i brought it into shore, on the grass of the bank. its rainbow colours hinted of deep magical places in the sunlight. of freedom in the green reeds, along the beds of the river. the caress of the current on scales as it ran along the body. a never-ending world. i watched as the fish gasped for freedom. its mouth opening and closing in the air. too much oxygen. open. close. open. close. hook through lip. i bent down and carefully removed the hook. carried the fish, in the sun, gleaming, to the sparkle of the river. lay it down on the water. watched it swim free. i left the rod on the bank, said my goodbye to my stepfather and friend. cycled slowly home. through the sleepy traffic of the town. up the hill past the tin topped house. to my door. i opened it quietly. went into the lounge. the rabbit was dead.

pumpkin

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mr higgins scooped the last of the insides out into the green plastic bucket. it had been a fruitful year. the display on the wall by the porch looked particularly good this year. sat in a row. images lit up. arresting. just the right note for the season. surely, he would win spookiest house again this year. not that anyone would tell him. folks tended to keep away. since that time. no doubt he would read about his prize in the local paper. get the trophy in the mail. no ceremony for him.
satisfied with the result. mr higgins added the harvest to the wall display. placing it on the end. he lit a candle and lowered it inside the hollowed bowl shape. putting the lid on top. the eyes lit up bright like stars. perfect.
he went back into the house. into the kitchen. put the kettle on. sat on the old wooden chair. and waited. they would be here soon enough.

they left the house screaming and laughing. he had done it again. can you believe it? tommy strolled at the back. head down. shamefaced. his mother had been right. this night was not for him. he should have listened to her. instead, he had climbed down the ash tree from his bedroom window. blue bag in hand. joined the school kids laughing along the street. going house to house. but he had done it again.
they walked along the path next to the house. mrs clarke. they said how she always gave the best sweets. the most. there would be a good haul here. there was a pumpkin on the wall making a fine display of glowing eyes and carved features. the sign that sweets were for the taking here. come in.
yuri rang the bell. a big long ring. the door opened. mrs clarke stood there. large bucket of treats in her hand.
‘go mad kids. i have plenty more.’
hands stretched out and grabbed fist fulls. dropped them into their buckets and bags. all except tommy. he stood back. by the gate. too scared to go in. feet rooted at the spot.
‘is that tommy marsden by the gate? come in tommy. grab some.’
tommy stood still. unable to move. hands moist. heart beating.
‘your bag full? ok. never mind.’
the children moved off. mrs clarke shut the door. moment over.
michael peered into tommy’s bag.
‘bloody hell, tommy. i can’t believe you did it again.’ he turned to the other kids, yelling: ‘ hey! tommy did it again!’
a laugh went up. cries of ‘he did it again’ turned into ‘scaredy cat! scaredy cat! tommy is a scaredy cat!’ a scream of cackling laughter rose as the group ran off along the path leaving tommy behind. even michael. they didn’t want to be seen with the loser. the pale kid with no sweets in his bag. the boy too scared to go up to the door. what a scaredy cat. tommy walked the street alone. sick yellow light of the street lamps casting shadows.
the other children were gone. tommy stood by the path that led up to the old house. big white building, large windows, porch. well-kept garden. rose bushes and tall things. tommy’s knowledge of plants wasn’t good. should he try here or head home? surely, a house this big would give the best sweets? it was worth a try. mustering up his courage, tommy headed up the path. past the neatly trimmed bushes. the stone bird table with a lillipad in the middle. a large tree’s branches hung low over the garden and path. leaves turned oranges, browns, and yellows.
as he neared the house he saw the display on the wall. it had to be the best in town. the other kids would regret missing that. a row of twisted faces lit with glowing eyes. some had rows of sharp pointe fangs, razor sharp. others, a single spiked tooth poking up. and some with tombstones in their mouths. the noses were all sorts of shapes, sizes and angles. the expressions on each different.
tommy stopped at the steps leading up to the porch. should he ring the bell? he could turn back. the lady at the store had said: only bad people lived in bad places. but his mum said: the lady at the store had bats in her attic.
cries of scaredy cat filled his ears. his head. the empty bag felt heavy in his hands. no. he must do it. had to do it. he took the white steps up to the porch slowly. leaned forward. pressed the bell. he could hear footsteps in a corridor approaching. a sort of shuffling walk. fumbling with the door lock. the door moved open.
an old man stood before tommy. blue worn slippers. brown chords, faded. white shirt and grey cardigan. grey hair was parted to one on a head which wore thick black-rimmed spectacles.
‘ah. you came. you want sweets?’
tommy’s mouth went dry. hands moist. his mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish. words would not come out.
deep breath.
he needed a deep breath.
count to three.
‘yes. ple..please.’
the man opened the door wide. tommy could see a glass bowl on a table in the hallway. it was full of sweets of every colour. blues, browns, reds, yellows. shimmering foil paper delights. but that wasn’t what caught his eye. there, in the middle, was an enormous mctavish whizzbanger. bigger than he had ever seen.
‘if you want it, just come in and take it. i have plenty more.’ the old man shuffled back from the door. clearing the way.
tommy knew he should not enter stranger’s houses. he had been told at school. told by his mother. 
scaredy cat! scaredy cat! tommy is a scardy cat!
if he had that whizzbanger the other kids would no longer call him names. they wouldn’t laugh. they would gather round amazed. jealous. he would be talked of as special. a hero. they would follow him. they would follow to the land of sweets.
tommy stepped in. past the old man. up to the bowl. there was only one thing he wanted. he put his hand in the bowl. grasped the whizzbanger. the door clicked behind him. 

mr higgins scooped the last of the insides out into the bucket. what a great expression he caught. it would certainly catch someone’s eye. he climbed up onto the wooden kitchen chair. reached high to the top of the welsh dresser to fetch down the orange paint. it had been another fruitful year. the display on the wall by the porch would look even better next year. sat in a row. images lit up for all to see. arresting. just the right note for the season. surely, he would win spookiest house again.

moment 19

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he rode at the back. wheels turning like a ‘45. three gears weren’t enough. the heavy frame of the Chopper didn’t help either. yellow with long slung handlebars and a seat two could fit. he would collect his sister from brownies. her sat behind him as he peddled home. complaints of silver cleaning. there was that one time they had got stopped by the police for riding on the pavement. and for her sat like that. they had got off and walked until the police car was out of sight. then they had enjoyed the speed of the hill. the air through the air. the thrill of doing something risky. the blur of the hedges of houses. the slow stop at the bottom on worn brakes. but now he rode at the back. his friends ahead up the curving hill. cursing the bike as the distance grew. they laughed ahead with calls and the joy of being on an adventure. he wanted to be home. to rest his legs. he wanted a bike like theirs. 10 speed racer with thumb wide frame. large wheels to reduce the need for peddling. he glanced up at the trees that curved down over the road that let in a pattern of light. hints of another world on the road. one of shapes that flicker or gently sway with an occasional dart of black birds. as he reached the big bend, ian was waiting for him. they both gave a knowing smile of best friends and continued together. ian in front, him struggling behind. just as he thought they would be cycling to the heavens, they met the others in a break in the line of trees. a narrow track led into a wood, the path muddy with pools of water. mirrors of a dark canopy. they bumped along.  surrounded by the tall netherworld of tree trunks.  pine leaf forest of brown and silence. that felt as if they had left the world behind. the world of terraced houses, back garden borders, and too interested neighbours. a world of cars, people and school work. but now they were the four outside the realms of people. the four knights on their stallions, although his was a nag, entering the world of fairies and maidens. until they met a fence. a new wooden fence with a gate. they pushed it open, undeterred and rode on the trail. banks of mud now rearing on either side, topped with small trees and bushes. a turn to the right and they were there. almost hidden but if you knew the secret you could find it. the lake. the lake older than the lady rising with a sword. the lake still with secrets and deep depths. they left their steeds.  and sat by the water’s edge. pulling out sandwiches covered in silver foil from their jackets. too happy to say anything. they had reached the fabled prize and were receiving their reward.

moment 18

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a path taken. terraced houses with metal sleeves. yapping dogs at gates mark the boundaries of freedom. a glass jar with string handle swings. what will it be today? a wide open road. not so busy now. the quiet hours. a quick clash and climb down. bridge marking the spot. a trickle of water. pebbles and weed. the sign of a stream. eager eyes look. the quickness of the young defeated. never mind. optimism prevails. darting hands reach and clasp. a tricky customer escapes. aching back pushes another strategy. jar flat in water. waiting. waiting. a lone tiddler edges near. then in. a grab and a swing. the beast captured. weed added for company. the proud hunter climbs up, carefully. follows the path home. trophy held aloof for all to see.

moment 14

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a room of grey and white walls littered with splodges of colour. different shaped but carefully placed. white chalk splashes on grey softened floor. and the silence of perspiration and concentration. a striped adventurer looks up, rubbing her hand. today blue. an arm stretches up, fingers feeling, testing for the right spot. experience says it can’t be done but that doesn’t deter. she is full of the optimism of this time. a right foot goes up, finds a place, then a push. the other arm stretches, feeling the path, over the holes and bumps until it reaches blue. fingers clasp the hold, left foot, push. a disadvantaged spider clinging to a wall. right hand up. up. come on. just. too. far. a slip. a fall. a soft landing. a smile.

moment 12

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a body made of chicken wire, glue and paper. built up over the days, layer by layer, strip by strip, to become a hardened shell. then paint applied, a mixture of greens, browns and blacks. finally, a detachable monster’s head. a precious item. the performance arrives. muffled instructions received and misunderstood. a roaring entrance down the aisle to the stage. parents watching. a speech given, time to turn and leave. a pathway narrows until I’m stuck in rows. unable to move. the heat rises in the costume, the papier-mâché body seems so thin. stiffled laughter permeates the hall. parents come to the rescue, moving chairs. the monster is freed and makes a quick exit.

presents

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Brown and blue gift box

when kevin looked back on the events he was surprised how things had escalated so quickly. from a small gripe. a slight. to action. to conclusion. but one thing he was certain of. it definitely wasn’t his fault. he was not to blame. he was the hurt party. when all things were done. when you looked at things objectively. he was justified in what he did. fully justified. unavoidable in fact.

a contract had been agreed at an early age. when he was young. without his approval. agreed by his parents. their parents. the parents before them. and so on. back through the ages of time. to the first person. the first contract. for first instance. kevin had no say in it. it was done. besides he was too young to voice an objection. to know the full implications of what he had entered into. how it would be with him for years. a chain around his neck. from place to place it was dragged. situation to situation. time to time.

the early years he was too young to know. too unaware. he was given things. he was not told. they were inconsequential items. a pair of woolly socks. a beanie hat in bright yellow. a small brown bear. how he loved that bear. where was it now? long gone. with his youth. hope. naivety. his parents.

he was told of the contract when he was four . of course they did not call it that. they referred to it joyfully. as if some game. but as the time neared. it was made clear. he had to be good. all year. to get the presents. or he would be left nothing. just coal. a single piece of coal. for his crimes.

kevin was horrified at this. why hadn’t he been warned earlier. given the heads up. he would have been much better.the ideal child. not pulled lucy’s hair. squirted the neighbour’s tabby cat with water. thrown a stone at a duck. eaten his broccoli. he had to make amends quick. play lucy’s games. give the cat some trout. feed the ducks. eat some broccoli. lots of broccoli.

the morning arrived. the reckoning. all would be revealed. had he done enough? he looked at the end of his bed. the presents were there. nuts. a tangerine. chocolate. a kazoo. a game where you flicked ball bearings into cardboard holes. all seemed well. but these were the additions. the unasked for. the starters. he made his way down stairs. to the lounge. and there. under the window. by the symbols of the contract. were the presents. specially wrapped to mark the day. he had to wait until his parents were up. that was the rule. he must not be tempted. they could all disappear by one wrong action. he waited. breathless. an age of time. waiting. 

his parents appeared. they smiled. little realising the obligation they had created. gave the signal. he opened the first. the largest. a pale blue metal scooter. push down brake at the back of the foot rest. rubber gripped handles. perfect. the contract for that year was complete. he could relax. a bit.

as kevin grew. his teachers remarked what a quiet, well behaved child he was. what an angel. but kevin was not fooled. he knew he had to be on his guard. to be good. perfect. maintain the contract. he knew what was at stake. he knew his teachers had a straight line to the contract keeper. the adjudicator. mrs higgins had told him so. with a smile on his face. as nigel kicked the classroom door. again. so kevin was good. always. made sure his reports reflected this. studied hard. got A grades. 

when at college he didn’t fall into the trap of long hair, electric sounds and smoky rooms. hallucinogens. experiences. his dad called them reprobates. he kept his hair down. kept away from the pretty  girls. stayed in his room. played sports. had only one pint after matches. studied. kept his hair short. and each year the contract was fulfilled. he had been good. the presents were there.

his father passed. he still visited his mother. cared for her. phoned her regularly. a dutiful son. his mother worried that’s he had yet to meet a nice girl. but he told her not to worry. he was looking for one just like her. like his mum. she just smiled. patted his hand. made them some tea.

in search of a good girl he joined groups. book groups. poetry groups. choir singing. wholesome pursuits. he even once went to a singles night in search of the right girl. a wholesome girl. it was in a bookshop. not just any. the most respectable bookshop. high vaunted ceilings. oak beams. pile bookshelves with only the classics. dickens. brontes. london. austen. eliot. none of that new writing. none of the corruptible stuff he had heard about. certainly no joyce. no hemingway. woolf. and absolutely not any larkin. never any larkin. but all to no avail. but there were no nice girls. they talked of politics. feminism. sex. not like his mother at all. his dear mother. his dear departed mother.

maybe it was because he had attended the groups. had read the sports pages. had two beers after a match. but kevin did not get a present that year. 

vowing to do better. kevin stopped the groups. joined the church. stopped drinking. avoided female sports. gave regularly to christian aid. but still no present. on adjudication day. nothing. no orange. no chocolate. no nuts. not even a lump of coal. how had he been so bad? he had done everything. he had been good. better than good. john in the office had got a watch. and he was sleeping with jane from accounts. be he. good kevin. had got nothing.

it dawned on kevin. it was not his fault. he was not to blame. he had not broken the contract. he had fulfilled his part. fully. to the full. the blame did not lie with him. it was the other to blame. he had broken it. he had torn the unseen threads that lay between them. something had to be done. retribution had to be sought.

so before judgement day. kevin lay in his mother’s house. on his mother’s bed waiting. waiting. waiting for the tell tale sounds. he was prepared. the traps were set. he would have it out. in a calm.reasonable. manner. 

it was after midnight when he heard the sound. the clatter on the roof tiles. the sprinkle of coal dust down the chimney. a sneeze. kevin hid behind the closet door. baseball bat at the ready. in case. he could hear the scrap of the glass on the mantelpiece. he pulled the string. there was was a cry. a thud.

it took kevin a while to position the man on the chair. he being so large and all. and the need to make the ropes tight. real tight. but he got the job done. he removed the hood to see what was there. a ruddy face. white hair. white beard. a red hat. with bell. it was him.

‘where’s my bloody presents?’

‘i’m sorry Kevin. What do you mean?’

‘last year. christmas. no presents. my mum even died.’

‘i’m sorry kevin. a foul up in the system. one of the elves…’

‘that’s not good enough. i was good all year. every year. every year of my life. and you didn’t come. a filing error. i’m worth more than a filing error.’

‘we’re all a little bad,sometimes, kevin.’

‘i’m not. i’m always good.’

‘and now. this isn’t being good kevin.’

‘screw you. you broke the contract.’

‘well kevin, if you’re going to be like that. we may have to forget presents this year.’

‘you wouldn’t…’

‘well, you’ve certainly put yourself on the naughty list…’

‘you bastard.’

‘now now kevin. this isn’t looking good for you.’

‘i want my presents.’

‘maybe next year..’

it was those words that did it. and the smile. and possibly the hoo-hoo on the end. but kevin couldn’t stop himself. he saw blazing red. a lot of red. the red of Father Christmas as he brought the bat down on the fucker’s head. not once. but several times. each time harder than the first. he ignored the crack of bone. the smash of teeth. the blackened eye. he just kept brining it down. all those years. all those opportunities. all those women. and he said this. the bat shattered with the last blow.

the body was easy to deal with. a spade. his mother’s large garden. a dark night. all pre-occupied with celebrations. festival delights. a quick sale of the house would sort that out. he would be long gone. abroad probably. somewhere with a wild nightlife. parties. bikini clad women. no worries. but what to do about the reindeer on the roof? that was a problem.

2022 and all that

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Well, 2022 brought a number of changes which impacted on what I write here. I have been submitting a new novel for consideration. But primarily, I have been writing a lot of prose-poetry. This has led me to the new outlet for my writing of Spoken Word.

What is Spoken Word?

Spoken word is when you perform any piece of writing to a group of people. It is often poetry but can be a story, monologue, or something else. It is quite flexible as to format.

Due to writing a lot of prose-poetry and sharing at my favourite writing group, I was encouraged to attend a Spoken Word night. I went along, sat, watched, then thought: I want to set up one of those. And where better than my favourite bookshop in my local area. So far they have been going well and I have been exposed to some great fresh writing that excites me and always leaves me thinking. Such a variety is on offer. All unique voices that should be heard.

Children love Spoken Word and enjoy writing poetry so it is a great thing to do for World Book Week. Why not start by enjoying watching some Michael Rosen, Benjamin Zephaniah, John Hegley, Kate Tempest, or Anthony Joseph?

As well as Spoken Word, I have been plotting and writing another one. I have changed my approach and audience for it. I’m venturing somewhere new. It is challenging and exciting. I’m trying to apply some of the approaches I use for my prose-poetry to the novel writing. I’m not sure it will work. Only time can tell.

What have you been doing?

Wild Words Festival 2022

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So Friday 3rd to Sunday 5th June is the Wild Words Festival in Cuffley, Hertforshire. I am on stage Friday at 4:30pm and I must say I am really looking forward to it.

I have been sifting through my children’s poems to find daft ones, silly ones, disgusting ones to share to warm the audience up before we get onto the serious business of wishes.

Wishes are so important to stories. Without them many things would not happen. Events would not take place and characters would not be motivated to do something. Of course, the problem with making a wish is that usually something goes wrong as Billy found out Wishbone Billy.

If you can make the festival, do say high and do let me know what you thought of my books if you bought them. I always love to find out from children what they think. If you can’t make the Wish Wonder you will probably find me hanging out in the festival’s bookshop buying more books when I really shouldn’t. I have so many to read already!

Anyway, whatever you are doing over the weekend don’t forget to take time to find a quiet space and make a wish. Maybe just a small one. You never know who might be listening.

Moment 57

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Almost night. The light dims. The time when the big ones sleep. It is your time. Time to rise and stretch. Take a bite. A drink. To explore. A garden of possibilities.
Not star dark yet.
You sniff the air. Feel the night breeze on your face. Stroking you. A distant sound. Dog calling. Too distant for trouble. A jump. A gymnast on a bar. You dance along. Instinct.
Then sit.
This will be the last time. You feel it. In your paws. In your bones. The coming of the end. No more to watch the flight of falling stars. No more to search among the ground for the exciting. You think back to the loves. The wars. They are gone now. Only you remain.
Silver at your ears. Watching the days. But this the last. No more.
The end of nine.

This came about thinking of a twilight memory. It struck me it would be more interesting if it wasn’t a human but an animal thinking of their life. I chose second person as I wanted to put the reader into the body of the animal. To become the animal. To make them closer to the animal. To increase empathy. I think it works.