Sharon's Writers Tidbits

A Bride For Count Wilhelm!

Short Story!

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in Nordovia where lush green fields stretched on for acres and acres, all owned by one Count Wilhelm of the House of Osenburg. Clad in a warm brocade doublet and velvet breeches, he bellowed for his valet, Boris.

Boris, who was never far away entered his master’s private chamber with trepidation.

‘Boris,’ he said, his voice high pitched and whining, ‘I want to ask you a question.’

‘Yes, my Lord, I am all ears.’

‘Do you think I am still pleasing to the eye?’

Boris who after over thirty years of service thought he had heard it all. Until now. He coughed into a large balled fist before speaking. He considered his master’s wide girth, stout build and balding head and kept his conclusions to himself.

‘Well my Lord, I wouldn’t say you are unpleasing for man who has seen many good years,’ he added insensitively, ‘but please pray tell me what is this all about?’

It was Count Wilhelm’s turn to cough before speaking. A log smouldered in the ornate fireplace bringing an ambience to what was a tricky conversation.

‘You see Boris, I would like a wife, perhaps someone lively and young.’

‘May I remind you Sir,’ Boris responded hesitantly, ‘you already have a wife. She resides in the east wing, remember?’

A grimace spread across Count Wilhelm’s face.

‘I’m not paying you to state the obvious man,’ he snapped, twitching furiously, ‘it’s your job to understand straight away what I mean. You are fully aware of my limitations and restrictions here,’ he moaned.

‘I think I understand,’ Boris replied lowly, sufficiently chastened.

‘You could start with getting word to the houses of the five kingdoms. Someone must have a fair maiden they wish to marry off, and let it be known I plan to divorce the countess. Now be gone with you, I have other pressing issues to deal with.’

Countess Philomena indeed, the count mused later that night in his bed chamber. He had long since grown used to their living arrangements but he knew her living in the opposite end of the castle still restricted his movements. Knowing this niggled him as he turned over and over in his large empty bed. Admittedly, he was no stranger to many a maiden in his bed before now, but he now desired something permanent, someone who could bear him more children.

As the count was drifting into a fitful slumber Countess Philomena was listening attentively to her handmaiden, nodding her head here and there whilst delicately sipping wine from a gold goblet. It wouldn’t be the first time her husband wanted to replace her in the House of Osenburg. She flicked a bejeweled hand to dismiss Lucy, she needed to think about how to repay the count for his ingratitude. After some time a smile played around her lips.

It was a starry night in Nordovia, filled with promise but for Count Wilhelm it held no magic. Having run out of conversation the count sliced his venison and chomped on the meat in silence. He was dining with yet another young maiden, this time from the Kingdom of Havant. His guest Isabella was young, with ivory skin and tumbling red hair, but he remained unmoved. She spoke delicately and possessed flawless etiquette. Their marriage would mean a merging of great wealth, making him one of the wealthiest men in Nordovia. But wealth alone would not keep Count Wilhelm’s heart warm and ticking merrily forever. He could sense the boredom even as he gazed at the exquisite, Isabella and her chaperone, her cunning elderly aunt Madame Mathilde. Wilhelm squirmed as listened to her extol the virtues of her niece. Underneath all that pleasantry was a woman who Wilhelm could see was as cunning as any fox.

Even if he could dispense of the countess and marry Isabella it was clear to him any interest in Isabella would soon evaporate like early morning mist. He beckoned to the staff to clear the table indicating an end to what was another tiresome, fruitless evening. Count Wilhelm strode heavily to his bed chamber, overcome with an unexpected exhaustion. He didn’t foresee finding a new bride could be quite so difficult, after all, despite his marital status he was quite the catch.

Upon entering his darkened chamber Count Wilhelm gasped at the figure sitting on a green velvet chaise lounge. His voice raised an octave as he said, ‘my dear wife, Countess Philomena, what brings you to my bed chamber at this late hour?’

‘Wilhelm, is that any way to greet your own wife?’ she responded.

‘It is late, so pleased tell me what I can do for you,’ he replied grumpily.

The countess held up a slender bejeweled hand in submission. Her voice had lost none of its authority and boomed around the chamber.

‘It’s come to my attention that you wish to replace me.’

‘How…’

‘Nevermind how I know, my knowing is all that concerns you.’

Standing up straighter and puffing out his chest, the count responded. ‘ Suppose that is correct and I do want a replace you, it should come as no surprise. After all, we live separate lives and hardly speak to each other, let alone anything else…’

Countess Philomena’s green eyes flashed and glared. ‘May I remind you I have given you four sons and brought great wealth to this union. I shall not tolerate any move to have me replaced in any way. Oh, I know about all your petty indiscretions over the years, she went on, ‘but I shall not allow you to render me penniless from a divorce.’ With that the countess gathered up her silk evening gown and swept towards the door with a flourish. She spun around. ‘And if you are planning on any unusual occurrences to befall me, like falling out of a window, I can assure you, you will not get away with it.’ The whole chamber reverberated as she slammed the door.

Tears of indignation squeezed out of the corners of his beady eyes. The count brushed them away briskly with a podgy hand. The realization of his plight was not lost on Wilhelm. He was stuck with the countess and that knowledge sent chills down his spine. He regretted the day he first laid eyes on her and agreed to their marriage. Eventually, he drifted off into a restless sleep.

The following day on a bright and breezy morning the count gathered his hunting party. Never one to dwell in the doldrums it was the perfect way to take his mind off his concerns. Perched solidly on his horse, the fresh air whipped a ruddy colour into his puffy cheeks. Meanwhile, he waited for the thrill of the hunt to kick in. His horse galloped gleefully, the hounds yapped loudly, but the count could not muster his usual excitement. Silently, he cursed the countess for ruining his favourite pastime and also his future plans. The huntsmen carried on regardless although they too discerned their Lord’s disquiet and displeasure. The count tugged Bayard to a trot and watched on as the hounds pelted here and there. Then, from nowhere appeared a young maiden making her way along the path. He froze in his saddle.

As she drew closer and carrying what looked like a sack of potatoes, Count Wilhelm knew in that instant that he had found his new bride. When she drew closer to him he could see her beauty and youthfulness. Her raven hair shone in the morning sun and her peachy skin glowed as if lit up from within. Judging by her plain clothing it was obvious however, she was a peasant woman.

He wasted no time. ‘I am Count Wilhelm,’ he announced in a strength of voice that surprised even him, I am the owner of Osenburg Castle, and you are?’

‘Agnes Schmidt,’ she replied hesitantly whilst remaining polite, ‘pleased to meet you but I must be getting on.’ She nodded courteously.

The count detained her further, whereupon he learned she lived in the village and worked as a housemaid for a wealthy family.

And so it was that one Count Wilhelm from the House of Osenburg believed he had met someone he could grow to love. He was not concerned about her lack of wealth or breeding or that he would become the laughing stock of Nordovia. He was enamoured with her. The only problem the count could foresee was the countess, who refused to be budged on her stance regarding a divorce. In the meantime, he would enjoy Agnes’ company and court her openly and ingratiate her into society.

When on a sultry summer’s evening whilst strolling through the grounds Agnes whispered, ‘dear Wilhelm, I long to be your wife,’ he understood what the poets meant by love. She was the most charming mistress he had ever known, despite her lack of means and refinement.

Unlike the countess, Agnes was fun-filled and liked to frolic once in the privacy of his bed chamber. It was while they were frolicking, with him chasing her around the chamber that Count Wilhelm thought he saw something sharp glint in the dimness.

He would never know his death would later on be passed off as an intruder breaking into the castle. Nor would he see his beloved Agnes kissing the gloved hand of one, Countess Philomena.

The End

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Thanks for stopping by!

Until next time.

Happy Easter!

Sharon

Image courtesy of Pixabay – Majabel Creaciones

Endings In Fiction

Reading literature is a big commitment especially as novels seem to be getting longer. Therefore, I feel the end of the book should be fitting to the story and worth the commitment of my time.

I’m aware that what could be classed as a satisfactory ending may well be subjective. Readers may have a conclusion in mind and yet the author doesn’t meet that expectation. That can’t necessarily be helped, but you still expect some form resolution to all fiction.

I recently finished reading Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by American author, Anne Tyler, first published in 1982.

It tells the story of Pearl Tull and her three children all of whom were abandoned by their father, Beck Tull. Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is set in Baltimore and spans thirty years from the 1940s to the 1970s. It starts with the now aged main character Pearl Tull considering her own demise.

Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is told through the perspective of Pearl and her three children; Cody, Ezra and Jenny. We witness the children grow up and see Pearl’s struggles as she attempts to keep her family together. Her struggle for survival oftentimes places her at odds with her children, even becoming somewhat of an enigma to them.

The interesting thing is all throughout the book, which is quite engrosing, we the readers simply want to know what happened to Beck Tull. What would make a husband and a father of three walk out and never return. We find out right at the very end of the novel.

I wouldn’t say it was a powerful revelation, but it was satisfactory. I was left feeling the ending suited the journey of the book. Furthermore, the ending took place at the same restaurant of the title of the novel.

The Horse Whisperer is the 1995 debut novel by late British author Nicholas Evans. It is a colossal tale of love, adventure and hope evolving around an injured horse, Pilgrim. Set in Montana, USA, the badly injured Pilgrim is transported to Montana from upstate New York to seek the services of a horse doctor or whisperer, Tom Booker.

Pilgrim sustained a serious road accident where his pre-teen rider Grace, was also injured. Against the advice of several vets Grace’s mother Annie Graves senses that the wellbeing of her family is reliant upon the horse’s survival.

Thus begins a memorable tale and at its heart, a powerful love story. When the married Annie Graves meets the attractive loner, Tom Booker, the fireworks between them is undeniable.

It is towards the end of The Horse Whisperer when Tom and Annie consummate their feelings, leading to what becomes a love triangle. Is Annie going to run off with her lover or stay with her devoted lawyer husband. And of course there is her young daughter Grace to consider.

How it ends took my breath away! I didn’t see it coming and it has got to rank as an all-time specular conclusion to a great story.

Stephen King’s Rose Madder (1995), is a twisted cat and mouse tale. Rose Daniels is the abused wife of police officer Norman Daniels.

After fourteen years of marriage Rose decides to flee if she wants to avoid being killed by her spouse. Norman Daniels doesn’t take his wife’s sudden departure very well and is hell-bent on her capture and return. We all suspect Rose wouldn’t live very long if she is captured. Very tense!

In the ensuing chase, Norman Daniels breaks all kinds of laws, including murder to apprehend his estranged wife. Rose Madder being a Stephen King offering is gruesome in places. All along you are rooting for Rose to get away, but also apprehensive as her deviant police officer husband, draws closer.

The ending fitted the story and enlists the supernatural to finally stop the vicious Norman Daniels in his tracks.

There is a kind of epilogue to Rose Madder, which didn’t actually add anything to the story.

Crime fiction is probably one of the only genres where the correct ending is crucially important. No one wants to read about a baddie, who doesn’t get his or her just deserts in the finish.

I know in real-life, detection and apprehension of criminals doesn’t always work out so neatly. This is fiction, however so I personally want to hear the clink of a jail cell door closing before I can consider it an appropriate ending.

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Thank you for stopping by!

Until next time.

Sharon

Image courtsey of Unsplash – Brandi Redd

Kindness!

The Animal Good Samaritan.

Last week on my way home from the local shops I stumbled upon something usual. Allow me to set the scene. It’s cold, very wet and dark. Not a good combination. All I was thinking about was getting home, putting down my shopping and having dinner.

There, I came upon a senior lady feeding a cat by the side of the road. Now then, this sort of thing doesn’t happen in my neighbourhood. It’s simply not that kind of place. I looked at the cat, and raised an eyebrow. Curiosity getting the better of me I walked up to the pensioner and said: “that’s not a stray.” Noticing the richness of its coat; it was a dark tabby, and the healthy bright eyes when it looked up. I struggled to label the cat as a stray. I mean, don’t stray felines have half an ear missing and are typically scrawny and bedraggled?!

The lady explained it was indeed a stray and that she fed him three times a day. She told me where he ‘lived’ and that other people were annoyed with him and wanted him gone.

We continued talking for a brief while. She told me she had two cats of her own at home and yet still came out to feed him! The tom cat even anticipated her arrival! Remember, it was raining quite heavily at this point. She went on to tell me she also fed the foxes and the birds. She wasn’t rich but simply had a kind heart and was generous too. Three meals a day is probably more than a lot of humans can boast of!

It really touched me as I grew up with cats and therefore have an affinity with them. Furthermore, I feel that love and compassion for all livings things is commendable and admirable. For me, I place this animal good samaritan above those people who may be richer and more able to afford such care for random animals.

And of course I started thinking about humanity itself. How, kindness, compassion and thoughtfulness are qualities there can never be enough of. Those qualities I feel, are the essence of being human.

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Until next time,

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Sharon

Images courtesy of Pixabay – guv59 and GDJ.

The Brilliance of James Joyce – Short Story Review!

Dubliners – The Dead!

The writer James Joyce should need no formal introduction from me. Born in Dublin in 1882, he became known as one of the greatest modernist writers of the twentieth century. And justifiably so!

You may be aware of the stream-of-consciousness writing style James Joyce uses as seen in Ulysses (1922), and Finnegans Wake (1939). However, I would like to turn to his earlier work, Dubliners first published in 1914.

Dubliners contains fifteen short stories with the final entry being The Dead. The Dead, at over fifteen thousand words long is arguably his best story. I found it colossal, curious and engaging. It also comprises the vital elements of excellent storytelling, these are: character, conflict and resolution. I especially liked the use of snow as character. It played a pivotal role in the story.

Gabriel Connor, the central character, is a man riddled with self-doubt and uneasiness. It is immediately apparent when at the beginning he attends the annual Christmas party thrown by his two aging aunts, Kate and Julia.

It’s a snowy evening and the moment he arrives he has an awkward exchange with the young housemaid, Lily when he implies she will soon be married off. This is her response to Gabriel as she takes his overcoat:

“The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.”

This unfavourable response sets the whole tone and mood of the evening for Gabriel. Although he was merely trying to be polite and light-hearted, it caused offence. It can be argued, the ‘palaver’ of men Lily refers to may also include him! He then attempts to tip her which she initially refuses to accept.

As the evening unfolds Gabriel appears awkward and remains ill at ease. He is unable to wholly participate in the celebrations. What’s more, although he is the favourite nephew of his two aunts he feels more pressured by this, than assured. We also learn he has a speech to give later in the evening, which he is apprensive about.

As part of the celebrations, Gabriel is to form a part of the quadrille dance with another guest, the patriotic Miss Ivors. Whilst they are dancing she challenges Gabriel for what she sees as a lack of patriotism after he discloses to her he prefers to take his annual cycling tour in Europe. He is then referred to as a West Briton, which is a derogatory term for someone who is more English than Irish.

In The Dead, I liked the way James Joyce interweaves characterisation with descriptions. For example, Gabriel himself is described as being a stout tallish young man with a hairless face, then further description: there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His description is appropriate and believable for an educated man who works as a teacher and a literary book reviewer. And he is certainly restless! The descriptions of the other characters are also vivid and colourful. Gabriel’s two aunts, the hosts, are described as being two small plainly dressed old women. What I found fascinating was the way these two elderly women knew how to throw such a grand party, every year. It implies they are more alive than mere age can disclose. They certainly had more verve than their nephew!

The Christmas party is well attended, with a singer, a tenor Bartell D’Arcy lined up for later. In the meantime, the evening is busy with chatter and merrymaking. The dancing and festivities depict the celebration perfectly. I could hear the swishing and swaying of the women’s skirts against the floors. I could smell the food, which was a lavish display, and hear the clatter of cultery at the dining table. And interestingly, it is Gabriel who heads the dinner table and does the carving of the goose, a role he is pleased to do.

The story of The Dead I felt was strengthened by its use of real-life locations and landmarks. Usher’s Island is the setting for the party and is the real-life home of James Joyce’s grand-aunts, where they lived in 1870!

The Dead is a multi-layered short story. It explores themes such as existence, mortality (obvious from the title), but it also explores and exposes the inner world and thoughts of the central character. Gabriel is a bad fit for the life he is living. He has grand ideas for a man of his social milieu. He is described as being irritated and even says to the patriotic Miss Ivors, I’m sick of my own country, sick of it! Quite a dramatic and revealing outburst. It could allude to Gabriel feeling he has outgrown Ireland. Needless to say his comment is met with disapproval from Molly Ivors.

By the time of the speech Gabriel is sufficiently nervous and feigns modesty regarding his public speaking abilities. In the speech he makes reference to the younger generation who lack the humanity and kindness of the older generation. This is ironic coming from a man who wants to escape his own country! He then moves on to pay homage to those absent faces – the dead, but urges not to become too sentimental about the past. It is the living that are important, confirmed by a toast to his aunts, who are delighted. The toast also includes a cousin, Mary Jane, who helped arrange the gathering. They are known collectively as the Three Graces.

The scene is of particular interest as it is at this point Gabriel is considering his own mortality. Life is fleeting, so occasions like the party should be enjoyed. The Dead is rich with symbolism: the party represents an affirmation of life before death. Even the snowy winter setting of The Dead is symbolic of death. Snow like death descends upon all living things.

After the speech the focus of the short story shifts from the guests to Gabriel specifically. You would be forgiven if you have overlooked Gretta, Gabriel’s wife. She does not appear much until the end. It is through the relationship with her husband that we grasp and understand the enormity of The Dead.

It’s early morning by the time Gabriel and Gretta leave the party amid a flurry of goodbyes. Together with two other guests they share a cab to the Gresham Hotel, where they are staying. It’s interesting to observe the different preoccupations between the husband and wife. Whilst Gabriel is reminiscing about their married life and becoming dreamy eyed and romantic, Gretta on the other hand, is distant and thinking about a song she had heard earlier. It is here we see how truly unaware or dead Gabriel is to his own wife’s inner world. So too can we see the silent rift within the marriage. Gabriel acknowledges the passing of the years, made busy with children, household chores and with his vocation. We see him becoming more enamoured, the closer they get to the hotel.

Gabriel anticipates a night of passion. He is eager to become physical with Gretta even as they are climbing the stairs to their room, but is hesitant. You can sense the paraylsis of his character. Paralysis is a common theme used frequently by James Joyce. Gabriel is stuck between his lustful instincts and courtesy, as he is uncertain of his wife’s response.

It soon becomes clear all is not well with her as he asks: “Gretta dear, what are you thinking about? ” If Gabriel is paralysed by etiquette, Gretta is being held captive by her past as Gabriel will discover.

She goes on to recount how the song she heard earlier, The Lass of Aughrim, reminded her of another man!Michael Furey was the young man Gretta was thinking of and who effectively died because of her. Michael Furey was a delicate suitor who came to visit the young Gretta at Nun’s Island in Galway where she was staying with her grandmother. He stood in the pouring rain throwing stones at her window. Gretta then found him wet and shivering at the end of the garden. It didn’t end well for him.

This tearful confession is powerful, yet subtly delivered. Its effect upon Gabriel is profound and revealing. It becomes clear from this admission he had never really captured his wife’s heart. Moreover, it’s apparent he himself would not risk his health for love.

This revelation forces Gabriel to see himself as he really is: a pompous, hollow, ineffective husband, a ludicrous figure! He then becomes indifferent to Gretta’s feelings and even becomes critical of her looks. He moves to the window, away from a wife who is overcome with emotion. Not for him, but an earlier sweetheart. As he looks around the room he notices Gretta’s clothes thrown over a chair. Then he observes a boot, one boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down… To me the boot represents Gabriel himself, an upright man on the surface but who has since fallen. He has failed Gretta, his marriage empty, of a love he cannot feel, therefore cannot embrace.

This realisation leads to the close of what is a magnificent story. As touched on before, it is rich with symbolism. The Dublin setting with the snow as character, is fitting and feels real. The characters, colourful and authentic, but in the fullness of time they too will pass through life and be gone.

Michael Furey’s love and apparent death because of Gretta leads Gabriel to reflect and conclude: it is better to have lived and loved before death. Death like the snow patting on the window pane and all over Ireland, comes to us all. This sad acknowledgement can be viewed as growth through epiphany for Gabriel. It moved him to tears even as he accepted he didn’t really love Gretta. The ultimate twist being; it took a dead man to make him see this. A sad realisation before the inevitability of life’s end.

The last few sentences are poetic and brings The Dead to a beautiful close. It affirms James Joyce’s brilliance:

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and fainting falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and all the dead. *

Thanks for stopping by!

Until next time.

Happy reading!

Sharon

*Extract from The Dead.

Image courtesy of Djuna Barnes – Public Dormain Media

AI, Anyone?!

Recently I had a discussion with a cousin who is a radio presenter for an online radio station.

During this discussion about ‘rare groove’* songs he mentioned that he has been considering playing music generated by AI?!

Well dear readers, you can predict my shocked response. What?! Whatever for?!

Now then, I’m not so blinkered as to not have noticed the emergence of artificial intelligence. Or its dominance in just about every aspect of modern life. And that is my objection. I don’t believe a machine can replace or reproduce the individuality and uniqueness of the human touch.

I am fully aware that this debate is not a new one, even as AI and all it can or cannot achieve, be fully understood at this moment. Nor can it be fully implemented, as it is ever evolving.

While I think AI is great for many things such as research, collating information and many other uses, I draw the line at the arts.

I have no interest in listening to any kind of music that has been generated artificially. This also includes creative writing, which I’m sure is on the bucket list of programme developers!

As touched on earlier, I believe as humans we are capable of producing magnificent things. When you think of much earlier writers such as Shakespeare, Chaucer, the poet John Milton or Robert Frost. All generated from that infinite well of human creativity. And let’s not overlook contemporary writers such as Stephen King, James Patterson, Danielle Steel, J K Rowling and Ian Rankin. All prolific writers and achieved before artificial intelligence was even thought of. And those are just the famous writers!

Painters such as Picasso, Turner, Constable crafted their art from their imagination and talent. All genuine, authentic and are still revered centuries later!

Although I blog about books, fiction and the wider arts, this post was triggered by a comment about music. I’m certain that late reggae artist Bob Marley composed his songs from his creativity. So too did Lennon and McCartney, Bob Dylan and Smokey Robinson – all renowned, prolific songwriters.

The use of AI in creativity has a limited place in my world. I frankly don’t see the need.

Before I go. If new technology/AI can solve the short battery life of my phone and other devices, it will make me one happy camper!

Thank you for stopping by!

Happy New Year!

Until next time,

Sharon

*Soul music that is less known or one-off hits.

Image courtesy of Pixabay – Jeffshattuck

A Christmas Wish – Short Story!

10 mins

Trigger Warning: This work of fiction contains themes of loss, grieve and bereavement.

Rose Saunders gazed through the kitchen window taking a momentary break from her Christmas preparations. Heavy snow fell from an opaque sky, coating everything with white flakes. Her large garden too was covered in snow and would lie dormant until next spring. Rose reflected that maybe she too was dormant, engulped and smothered by her own feelings since Malcolm’s death.

Rose slipped away from the window as the tears spilled from her eyes. She brushed them away briskly just as the telephone in the hallway chirped into life.

‘Mum, you really should get a mobile phone,’ her daughter Caitlin snapped, ‘it’s nearly 2016! You’re about the last person in the world who hasn’t got one.’

Rose smiled despite herself. ‘I don’t need one love,’ she replied softly.

‘OK Mum never mind that. Are you OK? You sound funny.’

‘I’m fine sweetheart,’ she lied, ‘I was taking a break from putting some finishing touches to the decorations, when you called. It’s snowing quite heavily here, please tell me you are both still coming. I haven’t seen you both in ages.

‘Actually mum, me and Flora were wondering if you would like to come to ours instead for the holidays. I’d come and get you on Christmas Eve and you could stay for the entire season. How does that sound?’

Rose fell silent momentarily. She could hear the house hum and the radiators crackle. The smell of cinnamon and cloves hung heavily around the house from the baking she had been doing that week.

‘Sweetheart, I would much prefer it if would come to me, as we planned. It would be better for me.’

‘I was thinking it would be nicer to get you out of the house for a change. You could bring everything here,’ Caitlin persisted. ‘I know you have been baking up a storm in that kitchen of yours,’ she added with a lighter tone.

‘I’ve made all your favourites: mince pies, a fruity Christmas cake, cookies, everything! It’s best you come here.’

‘As long as you are sure,’ Caitlin replied in an uncertain voice. ‘The thing is,’ Caitlin continued, ‘I know you miss dad terribly we all do, that’s why a change of venue, so to speak, might be better for you this year.’

There it was. Rose submitted silently, it was plain to see why she couldn’t contemplate spending the holidays anywhere else but home in Hently.

Rose put the phone down with a clink, sighed and headed for the the living room where the lights on the Christmas tree blinked and sparkled. The room with its glitzy decorations created a festive ambiance, even if Rose was yet to be wholly embraced by it. How could she explain to her headstrong daughter, who took a somewhat modern approach to life and living that she was sentimental? When Caitlin had divorced Marcus, Rose saw no discernible difference in her daughter’s demeanour explaining they had simply grown apart. It was as if Marcus had barely existed.

Rose had no interest in moving on. The house she was standing in contained many joyous memories of living with her father and building a life with him. All it contained, from the furniture to the family photos dotted throughout the house, anchored her to him.

When on that fateful day in December, she discovered Malcolm had been killed by a drunk driver, her first thought was that she had lost her dance partner. The shock and numbness dwelled on her like a malevolent mist. Even after ten years, it felt as fresh as ever.

Rose hasn’t expected to fall in love when she first met Malcolm Saunders at a ballroom dance class, in Hently town centre. However, the fireworks between them could not be denied. She remembered feeling thrilled when Malcolm finally admitted the depth of his feelings with an engagement ring.

Her mother Margaret did not approve of Malcolm, simply claiming he was from the wrong side of town. Her father Ted, was less vocal choosing instead to give him a chance to prove himself.

And he did, Rose noted with a slow smile. Then the smile fell from her face when she recounted how they were married in December and he had died in December.

‘Merry Christmas Nana!’ Flora announced brightly from the doorstep.

‘Happy Christmas Mum!’ Caitlin said, stamping her feet vigorously on the mat. ‘Terrible journey! Very snowy!’

‘Never mind that now,’ Rose consoled, ‘so good to see you both.’ She closed the front door, glad to shut out the icy cold. Then, Rose hugged them both enthusiastically.

‘Cool hat, Nan,’ Flora teased.

‘Thought I’d try and get into the spirit of things,’ Rose explained more brightly than she felt. She straightened her santa hat and patted her hair. Come on, let’s get started on some drinks, dinner will be ready for about three o’clock.’

Three hours later, Rose presided proudly at the dinner table. A large golden turkey sat in the centre of a busy table together with baked salmon for Flora.

Rose was enjoying listening to Flora talking about school and Caitlin complaining about her new boss at the accountancy firm where she worked.

‘So Mum,’ Caitlin said now, have you given any serious thought to downsizing? With dad gone, a smaller place would be easier to manage.’

‘Not this again, sweetheart, I thought I told you I was happy here, it’s not that difficult to manage.’

‘Yes, but with prices rising the way they are, a flat will be more cost effective.’

There was something in the stubborn set of her jaw, that made Rose’s heart ache. It was just like her father’s.

She took a long sip of wine and placed the glass down with a gentle thud.

‘That does make more sense, Nan,’ Flora added, ‘but don’t move too far away though, if you do decide.’

‘Right now, the only place I’m moving to is the living room to open our presents.’

The three of them filed into the living room and headed for the presents under the tree.

Rose tore the wrapping off her present excitedly and gasped.

‘That’s from both of us, Mum. Landlines belong in a museum!’

‘OK, I give in,’ Rose replied chuckling. Thank you both.’

‘Don’t worry Nan, I’ll show you how to use it. It’s not hard. I’m sure all your cronies have got one, so you can stay in touch.’

‘That’s something,’ Rose replied not sure how she really felt.

Later than evening while Flora was off with her phone in the spare room, mother and daughter sat in the living room.

‘The dinner was amazing! The turkey was succulent and the baked salmon was delicious.’

‘There’s loads left so you can take some home, if you want.’

Caitlin smiled as she sipped her brandy, the liquid warming and comforting. Mum, I know you miss dad a lot especially as it’s Christmas. I can still remember how you used to waltz around the living room and the kitchen. It used to make me laugh. The waltzing nurse and the bus driver! So cute!’

‘I remember it too. I miss those times, Caitlin. He died so suddenly. None of us got the chance to say goodbye.’

‘I know,’ Caitlin said in a low voice. Dad would have loved the tree. It looks jolly, very sparkly and twinkly.’

‘I learnt that from him. Your dad was the Christmas decorations expert.’

‘What I remember the most was how he used to dress up as Father Christmas when I was small, going around saying, Ho! Ho! Ho! Even when I was in my teens!

‘That was funny, he was goofy like that,’ Rose said as a smile played around her lips.

Then Rose grew serious. ‘I would have loved to have danced with him one last time, sweetheart.’

‘Then maybe you could find another partner, you’re retired now. You have many good years in you yet. When you learn how to use your new mobile there are dating sites you could join.’

‘Hmm! I’ve heard about those sites, but I doubt I’d find someone like dad. He was a one-off,’ she reflected more quietly.

‘I know, and he was the best dad a girl could ever ask for. But I want to see my one remaining parent happy again. It’s in there Mum, you just have to reach out and grab it.’

‘You know, for an accountant you can be very soulful at times.’

‘I know,’ Caitlin grinned, ‘I learnt that from my parents.’

Mother and daughter hugged then, an embrace so fierce and tight, there was no need for further words.

Eventually, they pulled apart and chatted into the night about Flora, and about Malcolm.

‘OK mum, I’m off to bed,’ Caitlin yawned and stretched.

‘I think I’ll sit here for a while and watch some cheesy Christmas film,’ Rose replied.

‘Ever the night owl, eh, mum! A throw back to your nursing days I don’t doubt!’

‘Something like that. Sleep tight, love.’

‘I’ll do breakfast tomorrow,’ Caitlin offered.

‘I’m looking forward to it!’

Rose settled back on the sofa with her feet up. She was still feeling full from the hearty Christmas dinner she ate earlier. She channel hopped briefly, but could find nothing she wanted to watch. Before long, she drifted into a deep sleep.

Somewhere in the dead of night, something brushed Rose’s cheek. Her eyes snapped open and for a moment she felt disoriented. She glanced around the room and then she noticed the blanket tucked around her.

The sound of her name, sounded far away at first, then close by.

‘Rose!’

There was no mistaking the voice. Rose turned her head and standing beside the Christmas tree was Malcolm dressed in his smart red jumper and black trousers he always wore on Christmas day.

Rose blinked several times before a smile transformed her face. ‘This can’t be real.’

Malcolm Saunders extended his hand to Rose by way of a reply. Rose floated to her feet and felt herself being glided around the living room. She was twirled and spun before they fell into a slow waltz. The room shimmered. There was nothing but air beneath her feet. As they danced and danced, they were frozen in time. They laughed and cried and kissed.

‘Happy Christmas!’ she heard him whisper.

And then he was gone.

‘Mum, Mum, wake up!’ Caitlin was standing over her mother shaking her. Mum…!

‘Flora!’ Caitlin screamed, ‘come quickly I can’t wake up Nana!’

Flora rushed into the living room, worry etched all over her young face. Mother and daughter exchanged a terrified glance.

At length, Rose opened her eyes slowly. ‘Good morning. Thanks for tucking me up with the blanket.’

‘Mum, you gave us a fright! We were trying to wake you.’ Oh! I didn’t bring the blanket! She turned to Flora.

‘I was out like a light,’ Flora shrugged.

‘Are you all right? You had a funny look on your face.’

‘Did I?’

‘It was kind of peaceful.’

Rose Saunders smiled serenely, the first real smile in the ten years since Malcolm’s death.

‘Come on Mum, I’ll do breakfast.’ Caitlin walked out of the living room, her relief evident with every smooth step.

And later that Boxing Day whilst alone in the kitchen Rose glanced through the kitchen window. It had stopped snowing. The white stillness settled upon her garden. Then she saw them. Footprints in the snow, strong at first and then fading away into the nothingness.

Rose turned away. ‘Flora, sweetheart!’ she called out. At once Flora appeared in the kitchen.

‘You OK now Nan?’

‘I’ve never been better. Let’s get started on setting up my new mobile phone. And maybe you could show me how to join one off those dating sites.

‘Cool and super fabulous!’ replied an excited Flora.

‘I’m ready to move on now, sweetheart. I’ve been granted my wish.’

The End

***********

Image courtesy of Pixabay – Art Tower

Thank you for stopping by!

Until next time.

Enjoy the festivities!

Sharon 🎄

Christmas – A Time For Giving!

Is it me or has Christmas rushed out of nowhere this year? It seems fast. Then maybe it will go part way to explaining my next point.

On Sunday I visited my local low-budget supermarket. It may help my point if I submit to you that I don’t live in the more affluent suburbs of North London. That said, it is the run up to Christmas when most people can expect to spend a little more money than usual.

Having bagged my shopping and whilst walking towards the exit I noticed a big festive looking collection box. It was the place to donate gifts, toys and games for poorer children.

I took a look inside and found it contained absolutely nothing. In fact, people were clearly using it to dispose of their till receipts. I did a double take!

Now, I know this is a low budget supermarket within a downtown area, but really?! I’m also aware that the holiday season is still weeks away, but still, I would have expected to see at least one gift in there!

Christmas is a time for giving! And I don’t believe you have to be particularly religious to hold that view. I feel Christmas is a time for quiet reflection, being with family and thinking of others who may be less fortunate than you.

Furthermore, it can’t be nice for a young child to wake up on Christmas morning with nothing underneath the tree, or maybe no tree at all!

Maybe, I’m overthinking this and the box will be filled with presents closer to the day! I’ll check the next time I’m in there.

Or could it be that the locals have donated at the tills, like I have done. Or, donated in other ways. I certainly hope so.

Interestingly, while I am on the subject of giving; a major supermarket chain again in my area, has erected large cardboard Christmas trees in its stores in acknowledgement and celebration of the season! Really?! Cardboard! Considering the profits these big stores make year on year, that’s not my idea of a display of generosity!

Ironically, I also hold the belief that Christmas, at least over here in the UK, is too commercialised nowadays with more emphasis placed on spending large amounts of money, than anything else!

What to do if you have nothing to give. Then, the gift of kindness is priceless.

Thank you for stopping by!

Enjoy the season!

Until next time,

Sharon

Image courtesy of Pixabay – Jill Wellington

One Drop – A Reflection!

Warning: The sensitive subject of death and bereavement!

Last month I attended the funeral of a beloved cousin, Jeff. Whilst I was sitting at the reception where we celebrated his life, I was thinking and reflecting.

I don’t think this is unusual at funerals, whether it is a close relative or anyone else. Interestingly, I was with my older brother Glen who, you may recall, had a massive stroke last year, which should have killed him! But luckily, he is very much alive and making a great comeback!

While I was busy catching up with family, some who not so long ago (to me) were mere preschool youngsters, but who were now fully grown adults, I took a sharp intake of breath. Heck! Life has really done a number on me, or I have done a number on myself!

Let me explain, if I may. It was life affirming witnessing the continuation of the family through the younger generations. But, as a childless woman, there is no continuation of my own family or bloodline. Hmm!

So when I lose my place on the ‘life list’ so to speak, what do I hand down? Did I truly exist? Could I go on in other ways?

As I glanced around the venue a thought formed in my mind. I have cousins, first, second and third. I have a sister, two adult nieces (my brother’s kids) who can reproduce in the future. And this is the kicker; if one drop of my blood runs through their veins then I am still going to exist much, much later down the line. That’s reassuring.

But here’s the thing. What if you can leave behind a thought, a book, an invention, a piece of art, a timeless photograph, a poem, a piece of music?! Then, surely this affirms your existence and value many, many moons from now! A comforting thought.

So, out of my grief and quest for eternity I have concluded that death doesn’t have to mean the end.

And failing all of that, I might just leave behind my winning smile!

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

Until next time.

Sharon

Image courtesy of Pixabay – Open Clipart-Vectors.

Black History Month, UK!

October is Black History Month here in the UK. It was first introduced in October 1987 with its aim being to acknowledge and celebrate the contribution black people have made to British culture and the arts.

As I blog about books and the wider arts occasionally, I would like to touch on black characters and writers who are British from ethnic minority backgrounds.

White Teeth was written by black British author Zadie Smith and was first published in 2000. Set in north-west London, White Teeth follows the lives of two former war buddies Samad Iqbal who is from Bangladesh and Englishman, Archie Jones whose life is ill-fated from the beginning!

Samad and Archie are from two completely different backgrounds but somehow they still manage to get on! And as you can imagine, there is bound to be fireworks with such a friendship. Aside from being funny and original, White Teeth, set from the 1970 to the 1990s, explores themes such as family and friendship, all within a multi-cultural spectrum.

White Teeth is a colossal work and is a debut novel for Zadie Smith, who was merely in her early 20s at the time of publication! It is the recipient of many prestigious awards including the Commonwealth Writers’ First Book Prize.

The character Luther was created by British novelist and screenwriter Neil Cross in 2010. John Luther is a black Detective Chief Inspector who works for the serious crime squad in London. Luther became a TV series on BBC and ran for five seasons. It also generated the 2023 feature film, The Fallen Sun starring Idris Elba.

The character Luther although charismatic, is complicated. He is dedicated to his work as a senior policeman, so much so, that it cost him his marriage! I liked the character Luther because he solved many of the cases not only through good detective work, but also with intuition. Together with his criminal sidekick, Alice, John Luther finds himself in many tight corners! A highly unique character and a very addictive TV series. The film The Fallen Sun is dark and gritty and shows Luther on the hunt for a wealthy serial killer. Very tense stuff!

I think my favourite black character in fiction was created by the American thriller writer James Patterson. If you are a fan of his work, you will be aware of his immense output. James Patterson is a prolific writer and I couldn’t begin to tell how many books he has written – I can’t count that far!!!

However, in 1993 the novel Along Came A Spider was the first of many books which featured the very eloquent African American forensic psychologist, Dr Alex Cross.

I remember reading Along Came A Spider in the early 90s and thought it was refreshing reading a thriller with a black main character. The character Alex Cross is so well developed that he feels real to me to this very day!

Dr Cross is not only an excellent detective solving grisly, complex crimes with fellow police detective, John Sampson (who happens to be 6ft 9 tall), but he is a very devoted family man. He also listens to classical music and can be found playing the piano in his spare time!

James Patterson although an American author, has been included here as I felt the character Alex Cross was too pertinent to leave out.

As Black History Month UK draws to a close the contribution and celebration of black people in literature or the arts and culture will continue beyond October! Enjoy!

Thank you for stopping by!

Until next time.

Sharon

Long Island – Colm Toibin

BOOK REVIEW!

I found the book Long Island by Irish novelist Colm Toibin purely by chance during the summer at my local library. And I’m so glad I did. Furthermore, judging by the amount of reserves on the aforementioned book, many other readers are keen to read it!

Long Island was first published in 2024 and it appears is a further exploration of the life of main character, Eilis Lacey. She was first introduced in the 2009 novel, Brooklyn, by Colm Toibin. However, Long Island works very well as a standalone novel.

Eilis Fiorello (nee Lacey) is married to Italian American plumber, Tony and together they have two young adult children, Rosella and Larry. Eilis and Tony have built a comfortable life living in Long Island within a complex alongside Tony’s family as neighbours.

All seems well until one day Eilis has a visit from a strange man, an Irishman. He goes on to tell Eilis something that will threaten her marriage to Tony and possibly her future in Long Island. I have to say the opening took me by complete surprise and was an ingenious place to start a novel. It certainly had me hooked!

Eilis who is originally from Ireland, is a woman with a past and it is because of the past that she feels compelled to travel back to her home country. And this is where the story becomes more complex.

Back in Ireland and living with her cantankerous elderly mother, Eilis reconnects with former boyfriend, pub owner, Jim Farrell. The problem with this dalliance however, is neither of them are truly available!

I have to submit to you here; although Long Island starts in America, most of the plot takes place in Enniscorthy, Ireland. Furthermore, the novel has a good sense of location. I felt I was right there, in southeast Ireland! Additionally, I especially liked the 1970s setting of Long Island with many scenes featuring public phone boxes! So delightfully quaint!

Interestingly, James Baldwin is one of the writers Colm Toibin quotes as having a influence on his work. I can certainly discern that in Long Island. However, I can also sense James Joyce in the telling of this drama of lost love and reflections of a woman in her 40s.

I found Long Island a satisfying read. The chapters are short, thus keep the narrative moving along refreshingly. However, the ending did leave me with my mouth open…

Colm Toibin in a great traditional storyteller. He has many other books to his credit, including Brooklyn. He is also the recipient of several literary awards and I’m thrilled I discovered him.

Thanks for stopping by!

Until next time!

Happy reading!

Sharon